


100 Words: A beginning

by HanaSheralHaminail



Series: 100 Words [1]
Category: Star Trek: Alternate Original Series (Movies)
Genre: Bonds, Five Year Mission, Friends to Lovers, Getting Together, I'm trying my best to bring tos back in aos, M/M, Sweet, T'hy'la, Tarsus IV, Telepathy issues, jim and spock are hopelessly in love, lots of telepathy issues, many tos references, relationship, tarsus
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-01
Updated: 2017-08-26
Packaged: 2018-12-09 19:05:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 11
Words: 70,605
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11675220
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HanaSheralHaminail/pseuds/HanaSheralHaminail
Summary: “Jim, I… as a Vulcan, as myself, I require commitment, I require… forever.”It can be safely said that when they met, neither Jim nor Spock thought much of the other; and even now that they have found their balance and acceptance has turned first into trust and then friendship, they struggle to define the limits of their relationship. This is the story of how they finally come to understand what they truly mean to each other, even if the shadow of Kirk's troubled past threatens to draw them apart forever.-This story is part of a series; it begins after Star Trek Beyond and will follow Spock and Jim's relationship through the years, much like The Original Series did! There will be away missions, stand-alone episodes and story arcs. The second part is now complete: '100 Words, Of the Mind'





	1. Friend

**Author's Note:**

> Hi everyone! This is a story I began months ago (it's on Fanfiction.net already); like I did with Frozen, I'm making a few corrections to post it here also! 
> 
> I hope you enjoy this first chapter, which is slightly different from the others because there are some scenes taken from the movies! Here we examine 'Frienship'!

**_1_ **

**_Friend_ **

 

When he first laid eyes on him, it was all Spock could do not to turn away in disgust -that obnoxious, troublemaking human was everything he despised most in the whole universe: he was a bully and a cheat, someone who would willingly break any rule to achieve his ends; he would have never believed he would, one day, turn out to be his closest, dearest friend. But things were so much different back then. He hadn't yet had the privilege of becoming acquainted with the boundless force of nature that was James Tiberius Kirk.

It was true they had been thrown against one another in a rather unpleasant situation, one that would have surely destroyed any chance they had at trusting each other. Kirk was insubordinate, brash, conceited, and Spock was cold, logical, wary, and every bit as self-assured as the young Captain-thanks-to-a-Vulcan's-emotional-outburst was. They were both at fault, but none of them was prepared to step back and simply acknowledge the fact: had it not been for Spock's older self and his fascinating words, perhaps their  _defining friendship_  would never had started.

Or perhaps it would have nonetheless. For as they beamed up on the  _Narada_  together and fought side by side, something had seemed to click into place in the Vulcan's hurt, grieving, horror-struck mind. And when the Cadet -no, Captain- had told him: "I'll cover yah," in his usual, admittedly quite endearing vernacular, and he had asked: "Are you certain?" because he couldn't really bring his logic to submit to the idea of placing his own life in his hands, the human's reply of "Yeah, I got you," had been thoroughly satisfying.

So perhaps, yes, their friendship would have happened nonetheless. Especially considering that, right after the  _Narada incident_  had been over, the first thing Kirk had done was seek out Spock in order to apologise for his behaviour on the bridge and offer him heartfelt condolences. From that moment on, the blonde, animated human took it upon himself to make sure the Vulcan trusted him and was at ease.

* * *

 

The Commander walked the corridors of the Enterprise to find the temperature had been raised by two degrees (an outstanding feat, considering the energy required, and one done solely for him) and went to the mess to see the replicator had a wide choice of vegetarian meals, and many Vulcan recipes too -it was more than he could wish for, yet he discovered himself still unwilling to follow his Captain's orders without complaint.

It was not that he enjoyed fighting his authority (that would have been illogical, other than untrue), it was just that Spock felt Jim Kirk was way too daring and hot-headed for his own good, and naturally it fell upon him to make sure the reckless human stayed safe, even if it meant  _driving him up the wall_  with regulation and  _but sirs_. In his own, fastidious way he was trying to care for him -his logical mind striving to define the connection he shared with the Captain, but coming up empty-handed: all things considered, it was quite reasonable that 'friendship' was an entirely foreign concept to him, giving his lonely childhood and strict upbringing.

Mistakes happened all the time, especially when one had virtually no experience in such delicate matters, and Spock might just have crossed the line -after all, Kirk had saved him from death by erupting volcano, and all he had been able to do was cite protocols back at him as a  _thank you_. From a Vulcan point of view, he was obviously not to blame for his Captain's demotion, but to a human it must certainly seem so.

"Do you understand why I went back for you?" A simple question, yet one he was entirely at a loss on how to answer. He didn't understand. He absolutely didn't understand. His inner hidden self was gasping, panting under the sudden desperate effort to give this precious human what he wanted -what he needed.  _I do not even know why you are angry at me in the first place. How do you expect me to comprehend your reasons? Won't you help me see, when I cannot?_

"…USS Bradbury. Guess you're with me." A new Captain -a different Captain -one that wasn't his Captain.  _No. I refuse. It would be illogical. I do not want to serve another. I have made an error, but surely there is some way I can redeem myself?_  "…Yes, Captain."  _No. It is not right, it is not right, it is not right!_

"The truth is… I'm gonna miss you."

_Not right, not right… Why does this simple change affect me so? Why can I not control myself? What have I done? How can I solve the equation?_

Jim Kirk was disappointed at him for not replying, and he offered no help, no logic to sort through the illogic of emotion. The subject was closed, leaving the Vulcan dissatisfied and wondering.

* * *

 

Broken words, a broken future, fading away into nothing. It was Vulcan all over, another black hole sucking away everything he held most dear.  _Please, let it not be true…_  But there are no such things as miracles.

"I'm scared, Spock. Help me not be."

He was dying. His Captain was dying and there was a glass between them. His Captain was dying and there was nothing he could do, he was helpless, he could only watch and press himself against that cold, transparent surface in a futile attempt to touch him, reach him, comfort him. "How do you choose not to feel?"

To choose not to feel. Maybe that had been his mistake? Maybe that was why he hadn't understood sooner what this precious, courageous human meant to him? Because then and there he felt, all too clearly, and he most certainly understood. "I do not know. Right now I am failing."  _I am failing because I cannot save you. I will lose you. Captain, my Captain. How I wish I had known any sooner. Did you have to die for me to see? It is said an apology is illogical, yet I feel I have wronged you somehow, and I wish to tell you I am sorry… So sorry…_

Jim was struggling to speak, lips trembling in his effort to form words: "I want you to know why I couldn't let you die. Why I went back for you."  _These are your last words for me? Is it so important to you for me to acknowledge what we share? How did I deserve such care?_

His voice was shattered as it had never been, human tears fell across his cheeks, betraying his hybrid nature, and a raging fire was boiling in the pit of his stomach.  _He must pay, Khan will pay, he will suffer as Jim has, I will break his bones, taste his blood, hear his screams, choke his breath out of his lungs, turn him into a pile of ashes, burn him, torture him, annihilate him, because he dared take my Captain from me, because…_  "Because you are my friend."

When they spoke of love, humans employed a variety of unnecessary metaphors: they claimed love was like falling headfirst into the void, in an unsettling whirl of emotions and feelings; when they spoke of friendship, instead, they said nothing. Was it possible to fall into friendship? Because Spock had fallen, and he had fallen hard and unexpectedly fast, rushing towards that terrible moment, that soul-wrenching realisation.  _You are my friend._

He watched as those wide blue eyes lit up infinitesimally, and for once he felt as if he'd done the right thing.  _My friend, my first friend, my only friend, do not leave me, I beg of you_ …

Such anger was beyond anything he had ever experienced. Perhaps worse even than the Plak-tow, the Blood Fever, that dark green haze of madness clouding the Vulcan mind and claiming its secrets and melting its logic away to the point where nothing but a warrior -an animal, a furious, feral animal- remained…

And such overwhelming joy when Jim Kirk had been brought back! He hadn't shown it past the use of his Captain's first name, but he was quite sure his eyes gave out much more than he intended, shining in relief and happiness.

Indeed their friendship was, as the humans would put it,  _above and beyond_.

* * *

 

His regard for Jim Kirk could only grow as time went by.  _He_  was the reason he hadn't yet submitted to his duties and fled to New Vulcan -Spock was prepared to leave even Nyota, and still he found he couldn't leave his Captain, he couldn't even bring himself to tell him about his choice, it felt like betrayal. Was it supposed to be like that? Was this friendship of theirs supposed to be so soul-consuming, so overpowering?

"What would I do without you, Spock?" Jim asked him breathlessly as they toppled down the cold floor of the bee they had conquered -stolen- from Krall's army. He had saved him once more, and had once more felt that paralysing fear that seized him every time the human risked his life.  _What would you do without me? How could I even think of leaving you? What would become of me without you, my friend?_

He was half-blood. Most Vulcans wouldn't even welcome his help, so why should he offer it, when Jim Kirk needed him so? When he gave him his trust and pride and loyalty and all he asked in return was for him to stay?

Pointless to say, the matter was settled then.

* * *

 

And for all the very Vulcan puzzlement he experienced in front of emotions, he still noticed that his Captain had been deeply affected by their  _tête-à-tête_  with former war hero Balthazar M. Edison: he smiled significantly less, spent more time alone than interacting with the crew, and was overall sombre -well, as sombre as Jim Kirk could ever be- and way too placid for a human. Spock found himself quite illogically pleased to have discerned as much about James's gloomy mood, and he immediately started to carefully concoct an admittedly perfectly-laid plan to improve it. He seized his opportunity when he saw Jim enter the mess and flop down tiredly in front of an empty table; he got up, grasped his tray of half-eaten food and walked to stand by his chair: "May I join you?" he asked softly.

He was instantly rewarded with a grin that brought a certain warmth to settle in the Vulcan's chest, and the Captain snickered: "As if we haven't been sharing meals for the past three and a half years!"

"Three years, eight months, thirteen days and seventeen hours," Spock corrected absent-mindedly as he gracefully took a seat next to the human, who instantly craned his neck to peer into his dish: "Plomeek again?" he murmured fondly, "Still convinced Vulcans don't have favourites, are you?"

"Indeed, Jim." Spock sipped his soup with deliberate calmness, holding Kirk's bemused stare unflinchingly. "Plomeek soup does taste agreeable to me, but it is not my favourite. Having a favourite is illogical." His statement was met by a very mocking raising of eyebrows, and Spock couldn't help but feel quite proud to be the one to elicit such carefree, relaxed responses from Jim. It was, he thought, his specific duty as friend. "But I did not request to join you in order to be teased at."

Blue eyes fixed on his face, filling in curiosity as the blond gave him his undivided attention: "You didn't? No wonder!" he chuckled, "Then why on earth did you choose to grace me with your presence, Commander?"

"Doctor McCoy has inadvertently informed me you used to play chess," the Science Officer said slowly, studying his reactions closely. "I have been wondering whether you had an interest in engaging in such an activity this afternoon."

" _Oh_." Jim's surprise was endearing to look at. He shifted in his chair, bringing one finger to his temple to lightly scratch the short hair just above, then a warm, gentle smile spread wide across his face: "You know, I was planning to ask you sooner or later," he admitted, a little sheepishly, "Seen you play the computers a few times. Not the same, uh?"

"I take it you are willing?" Spock prompted, confused by his vague response. "Shall we move to the recreation room?"

Kirk laughed openly at that, wolfing down the last of his chips before he finished his glass of water. "Impatient, aren't we?" His teeth flashed under the sharp lights of the mess as he smirked yet again, tiny dimples forming at the corners of his mouth.

"Vulcans are never impatient," the Commander retorted haughtily, eyelids lowering infinitesimally in his display of superiority. He shot one look at his very empty bowl of soup, and brushed his spoon to its sides regardless, collecting every last drop with relish.

"Still not a favourite, right?" Jim demanded, winking.

"Negative."

* * *

 

"What has you so distressed, Jim?" Spock asked, not bothering with preambles, going straight to the point as he set the pieces on the three-dimensional chessboard. "Our latest mission was an absolute success; we defeated Krall and subsequently saved Starbase  _Yorktown_ , plus we destroyed a highly dangerous weapon." He raised his eyes to meet those of his Captain, who was staring at him intently, probably thinking of a way to avoid giving him a truthful answer to his question. He went on matter-of-factly, relaying his observations as if he had been making a report: "Our casualties have been very few -fewer than what the odds allowed. You should be, all things considered, satisfied, and displaying signs of confidence, boldness, relief. Why is it not so?"  _And, more importantly, how can I be of assistance?_

Jim sighed deeply, rested an elbow on the table, dropped his chin in the palm of his hand. Blunt human teeth descended to worry his lower lip for a split second while he made up his mind, never breaking eye-contact with his First Officer, wanting to test his resolve. "Spock, do you think I've been dealt too much power?" he blurted out suddenly. Before the Vulcan could even begin to reply that  _No, Jim, I do not believe that in the slightest…_  he went on: "Because I do. There are more than four hundred people aboard this ship, and I am responsible for every last one of them, not to mention those decisions of mine that affect the aliens we meet planet-side… You look up to me and expect me to save the day, to be a hero, but…" He frowned, chest heaving and shoulders slumping. "What if I'm wrong? What if I make all the worst choices? What if I go mad like Edison did and put you all in danger?" He was rushing now, spilling out his soul-deep worry that made Spock flinch a little and recoil, feeling a bit ill-equipped to deal with it. "I could blow the whole thing up in a blink! I'm just a man, yet I must be so much more…"

He blinked, shaking his head: "Sorry. I don't know where that came from. Did I shock your Vulcan sensibility?"

The Science Officer raised an eyebrow: "Do you truly think so little of me?" he chided, successfully concealing any confusion and stress he might have felt in front of his friend's legit doubts. "Jim. You are an excellent Captain, and I am quite honoured and pleased to serve under your command." He relaxed his impassive expression to allow the tiniest glint of affection to shine in his dark eyes. "That being said… The probabilities that an event such as you have described could occur are less than one against ten. Very few, but still there. I for one do not believe them to be enough to even suggest questioning your authority." His lips trembled, his usual ghost of a smile playing on his face: "You may rest assured that I will do everything in my power to see to it that you are always fit for Command, Captain."

"Is that so, Mister Spock?" Jim taunted, tension visibly draining from his back and neck.

"Indeed." The Vulcan straightened impossibly. "I, too, am acquainted with having to meet unbearably high expectations."

"You bet." The human stretched his fingers with a sharp crack of thin bones, ignoring Spock's evidently disturbed expression as he did so. "Your father must be quite the demanding parent, uh?"

"Quite." Unwilling to discuss Sarek, the First Officer gestured shortly towards the chessboard: "I was under the impression we were here for a specific reason."

"You're the one who went all psychologist on me, pointy." He laughed gently, then extended his arm to lightly touch Spock's blue sleeve: "Seriously, though. Thank you."

"Thanks are illogical and unnecessary," the Vulcan declared, nodding, "Yet I have to say, you  _are_  welcome, Jim."

* * *

 

A few days after their exchange came the realisation.

It was the very first shore leave Spock had taken since he and Lieutenant Uhura had parted ways, and the Vulcan had been entirely uncertain as to what had compelled him to join the landing party up until he had been down on the designed planet -a magnificent place, graced with an appealing lilac sky and richly-scented atmosphere. He was alone, for he had not made previous plans to descend and Jim had been the first to go, along with the rest of Alpha crew. He ended up in a bar, forcing his way through the crowd in an attempt to search for his Captain, hoping he would not be too busy  _getting into some pretty alien's pants_  to keep him company.

He reinforced his mental shields as he advanced, trying his best to avoid making contact with any of the leering, overexcited beings that filled the small dark room to the point where Spock began questioning their sanity for not simply leaving. As he finally reached the counter, he stopped dead at the sound of his name being hissed by a very familiar voice.

"What's your problem with Spock?" Jim snarled in what was an unmistakably aggressive tone.

The Vulcan paused for a moment, contemplating whether or not he should depart in order to give his Captain some privacy; still, it was  _him_  he was talking about, and Spock was many things, but above all he was curious, so he stayed.

"Why, Jimmy… Everybody has a problem with the half-breed," Kirk's interlocutor, the Vulcan guessed, was Irish, a few years older than the Captain himself, judging by his voice and accent. "I wonder why you don't?"

"Just shut the hell up, Finnegan." Jim growled, giving Spock another much-wanted piece of information. Lieutenant Commander Finnegan had been one of Starfleet's most troublesome students, and the First Officer had come to understand he held a particular grudge against his friend; he began to consider joining them to offer support and perhaps order the annoying human away.

"He's so interfering and superior," Finnegan mercilessly continued, "But maybe you like to have him bossing you around? Poor, submissive Jimmy…"

Spock nearly knocked down a stool in sudden rage.  _He dared speak to the Captain as such?_

"You're just jealous I get to keep him and not you," Jim countered, sounding bored now.

_Keep me?_  "He's the best Officer Starfleet could ever dream of having."

A laughter was heard. It was rather unpleasant. "Unemotional, sassy and nerdy.  _La crème de la crème_ , Jimmy boy, really."

"You wish you had his brains," Kirk muttered, before hollering at the barman: "Hey, get me another, will you?" The Vulcan decided it would be best if he joined his Captain now.

"He's just a  _freak_." The sheer malice of the word -which he had heard repeated and directed at him countless times in his childhood and youth- hit him like a powerful blow. He took a step back. "A science experiment gone wrong."

He took another step back. Then a third, for good measure.

"Say that again," Jim's voice went cold with perilous fury. "Say that again and I'll  _murder_ you." Spock released a breath he hadn't known he'd been holding, and this time he stepped forward.

"Oh, I know you wouldn't dare, Jimmy." The Vulcan heard his friend grit his teeth. "Not for that walking icicle."

"Oh, yeah? Try me." Kirk was ready to pounce. Spock hurried towards him.

" _Freak_." Finnegan said, very slowly.

"You asked for i…- _Spock_!"

The Vulcan grabbed his Captain by the wrist, stopping him before he could land a blow on the Lieutenant's face and start a fight that would surely cost him trouble. "Greetings, Jim," he murmured calmly, letting him go when he felt the wave of fury surrounding him had subsided. Then he looked up to glare at Finnegan, freezing him in place. "I had never known a human could be so utterly disgusting," he stated, as if speaking about the results of some interesting research. "Your foolishness fascinates me."

He saw Jim go pale and stand quickly, rage, sympathy and sadness rolling off him and crashing against his shields. "Oh my God.  _Spock_. You heard it all."

"Indeed, Captain."

Finnegan gulped, cowering under Kirk's poisonous gaze, and suddenly the Vulcan felt like he needed to restrain his friend again -his fingers were twitching, wanting to clasp themselves around the Lieutenant's neck and choke him. "You beast," Jim hissed viciously, "You  _beast_. I'll hand your ass to you, just you wait and…"

"Jim, please." Spock interrupted, tugging at his sleeve in a not-so-subtle attempt at steering him away from the danger of ruining his career for a bar fight. "Would you mind joining me for a walk? This place is quite tiring for my senses."

Jim deflated. "Of course, Spock. Let's go. I can kill him later." Then louder, at the barman: "My drinks are on him!" With that, he turned his back on Finnegan and expertly navigated the room to a side door, his First Officer close on his heels, eager to go somewhere quiet and uneventful.

"Killing him will not be necessary," Spock said sternly, looking up at the colourful sky. "But I thank you nonetheless."

"Thank me?" Jim was appalled. Both his hands came to rest on the Vulcan's shoulders as he stared at him seriously. "Spock, you  _never_  have to thank me for defending you." His ocean eyes burned, piercing his very soul. "What kind of a friend would I be if I didn't?"

"Even so, it is not to be taken for granted."

His Captain shook his head and offered him a warm smile: "You can. You can take it for granted. I'd be glad if you did."

That was when the realisation happened.

He had made an enormous mistake. He had believed 'friend' to be just a word to describe James T. Kirk. But that was untrue: it didn't even begin to cover the greatness, the amazing loyalty of this human being. And it was the other way around, Spock was now sure. Since that day,  _James T. Kirk_  became  _the one and only possible definition of 'friend'._

"So…" The Captain turned on the spot, breaking the silence: "Did you have… anything in mind for us to do?"

"I regret having to tell you that I have, indeed, come unprepared." The Vulcan confessed, folding his hands at the small of his back. "If you had made plans, then perhaps I should…"

"My plans are not  _that_  important," Jim waved carelessly, then pointed left, where a large group of rocks could be seen, not too far from them. "How about we go exploring?" he suggested, growing instantly excited, "I've been told there's a lake nearby, with actual plants and actual fish!" His brow furrowed a little, and he glanced at Spock, "I understand water's not really your thing, but… uh… Let's just make the best of it, ok?"

"I find your arrangement to be most agreeable," the Vulcan murmured sincerely, "Let us go, Jim."

Yes. When he first met him, he would never had believed Jim Kirk would become his closest, dearest friend. And yet there he was, perfectly content to watch this golden human's back and follow him around.

His  _friend_.

 


	2. Guilt

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “He has a Vulcan appearance, yet his eyes are human. Unbecoming,” the higher intelligence explained, still refusing to address him directly, “Everything he is or does is farce. Falsehood. Such deceitful manner is frowned upon amongst my people.”  
> It was… not an entirely untruthful statement, and the Vulcan found himself incapable of refusing it in any way, thus he fell quiet, waiting for his Captain to either acknowledge or reject the alien’s conclusions. To damn me or save me, Spock thought wryly, recalling some long-forgotten Terran poems and glancing left at the golden human who seemed to be glowing with barely-suppressed energy. “Then we’re just lucky I’m the one dealing with him, aren’t we?” Kirk murmured sweetly.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For now, the revision work is going fast! I have Chapter two ready and here! We're exploring... Spock's guilt!
> 
> Please enjoy! And a great big hug to all of you who left kudos and comments! You all are precious!

**_2_ **

**_Guilt_ **

 

“Your First Officer is most peculiar.”

The disembodied voice of an unknown life form filled the bridge as their evasive manoeuvres were stopped abruptly. They held on to their assigned positions, looking up at the screen when it suddenly showed the projection of a vaguely humanoid creature. Pale eyes fixed on the Vulcan, and Jim Kirk slowly rose from his chair. “I dislike him,” the voice continued.

In a blink, the Captain was standing in front of his Commander, arms crossed and chin raised in clear challenge. “Is that so?” he said, white teeth bare. Spock silently moved so he was stationed by his side, rather than behind him, and noticed that his friend’s heartbeat had increased significantly, a vein pulsing visibly at his temple.

“He is deceitful.”

Cold silence followed the statement as the humans on the bridge exchanged mystified and -Spock realised with a twinge of regret- slightly worried stares; only Jim kept glaring angrily at the alien, as if daring him to speak further. Finally, the Science Officer cocked his head to the side and said, loud and clear: “Deceitful in what way?”

“He has a Vulcan appearance, yet his eyes are human. Unbecoming,” the higher intelligence explained, still refusing to address him directly, “Everything he is or does is farce. Falsehood. Such deceitful manner is frowned upon amongst my people.”

It was… not an entirely untruthful statement, and the Vulcan found himself incapable of refusing it in any way, thus he fell quiet, waiting for his Captain to either acknowledge or reject the alien’s conclusions. _To damn me or save me_ , Spock thought wryly, recalling some long-forgotten Terran poems and glancing left at the golden human who seemed to be glowing with barely-suppressed energy. “Then we’re just lucky I’m the one dealing with him, aren’t we?” Kirk murmured sweetly.

Which could mean everything and nothing at the same time; the Vulcan was very impressed by Jim’s ability of giving purposefully vague answers, even if it meant he had to concede that perhaps the powerful life-form was not completely wrong. _Is it heaven or hell? Shame or relief?_

“It is an unfortunate situation, that which we find ourselves in, human Captain.” The translucent image joined its fingers by their tips and added, in a contemplating manner: “He is evidently not to be trusted.”

Kirk’s eyes narrowed, he exhaled a sharp breath that came out in a puff, reached back to grasp Spock’s elbow in an iron grip. “I will be the judge of that.”

For the first time since it had made itself visible, the foreign intelligence showed a hint of surprise, perhaps even admiration: “Are you prepared to do so?”

“I guarantee for him.” The Captain said fiercely, stepping forward instinctively before stopping himself once more to reign his emotions in. “He is not a threat, I assure you. Let us cross your skies. Our mission is one of peace and tolerance.” Something akin to disgust crossed his eyes for a fleeting moment, and he stressed his point: “Peace and _tolerance_.”

Spock blinked. _He has grown so greatly. What a spectacular, fascinating human._ He was gold.

For the umpteenth time, the voice resounded across the bridge, loud and final: “How do you pledge his behaviour?”

And without hesitation, without faltering, without even pausing to think about it, Jim Kirk raised one eyebrow and produced the cockiest of his grins: “With my life, of course.”

_Of course._

“Impressing,” the creature said, flat tone in blatant contrast with his words, “You may pass.”

The Captain nodded curtly but offered no thanks, and the projection vanished. Sighs of relief fluttered around, accompanied by some offended remarks on Spock’s behalf, but the Vulcan paid them no mind as he busied himself with tampering down the all-too-powerful gratitude and wonder he felt towards his friend. He was on duty, he needed to be cold and logical.

“Captain, I believe I should…” he began, leaning on the back of his Captain’s chair to rest his own hand on the armrest. Jim, who was already sitting comfortably, craned his neck to look up at him and smiled wide. “No, Spock.”

The eyebrow of confusion went up, and the Commander started to protest: “You do not know to what I am referring.”

“You want me to excuse you to your quarters and momentarily relieve you of duty because you think the aliens will be happier with you out of sight,” Kirk hissed, speaking low and fast so only he could hear. “Or don’t you, Spock?”

Utterly astounded, the Vulcan could only nod.

“Well, you’re not excused.” A lazy smirk filled the human’s face and he let his chair swing a little, forcing his second to accommodate the rocking motion.

“But, sir, if I may…”

“No, Spock, you may not.” Jim said firmly. “I couldn’t care less what that thing thinks. If hell breaks loose, I want you at your station to back me up. Am I understood?”

“Understood, Captain.” Without further ado, Spock walked back to his instruments, satisfied, filing the alien’s xenophobic remarks away to examine later.

_He is deceitful. He has a Vulcan appearance, but his eyes are human._

_His eyes are human._

 

…

 

“His eyes closely resemble a human’s,” the Healer proclaims, looking unflinchingly down at the four-year-old child sitting in front of her. The child stares back guilelessly, a faint tinge of emotion playing on his soft features as he listens to the verdict. “This alien appearance, however, is nothing if not deceitful, for we have tested his sense of sight, and it is well above standard parameters.”

A cold gaze almost the colour of Vulcan’s sky lands on the tiny hands only just slightly clenched around black fabric, on the almost invisible shivers shaking fragile shoulders. “His controls are barely in place, I believe.” The Healer turns to gaze gravely at Sarek, whose Vulcan composure seems to be unbreakable. “We cannot predict when or if his human half will settle. It is likely it never will, eventually leading to death, or, at best, insanity. I regret not being able to form more precise theories, Ambassador, but he is unprecedented.”

“ _Kaiidth_ ,” is all the Ambassador replies.

A gasp is heard coming from behind the two adults, but when they turn again, Spock is still and his face is a mask of calm and void. “I apologise, father,” he murmurs, “I shall do my best to…” His voice is small and heavy, betraying the weight of his unbecoming fears and insecurities. 

Perhaps taking pity on him, Sarek interrupts his hastened, desperate apology: “That will not be necessary, son. Join me: let us return home.”

Grateful beyond the point of dignity, Spock slips down from his stool and moves to stand as close as he’s allowed to his father, after having bowed politely at the Healer. The Ambassador discretely presses one finger on his back, and through their parental bond he sends a wave of reassurance to soothe him somewhat.

“Worries about the future are illogical; some things cannot be changed,” he states simply, “You are not required to annihilate one part of yourself.”

_But I am_ , Spock thinks miserably. _I am. It is that or death._

 

…

 

The lights in his quarters were dimmed and he sat at his desk, back impossibly straight and head held high as he spoke to his father through the screen of his computer.

“I trust matters at New Vulcan are proceeding well?” Spock inquired, folding his hands neatly in his lap.

Sarek’s stony expression hardened infinitesimally when he answered curtly: “Not entirely. We are in danger of losing another species.”

“Specify,” Spock prompted immediately, mind already racing ahead in the prospect of solving the problem; a twinge of guilt darkened his eyes, for he should be there, with his people, he should be offering help, he should be doing something, anything, to keep their culture -their lost, precious world- alive and prospering… He should, yet he did not.

“The slight differences in climate are affecting the _mashya_ ,” Sarek explained flatly, “We find they are incapable of adapting to the composition of the new soil: they wither quickly and have yet to reach full growth.”

“I see,” The young Vulcan was now writing feverishly into his PADD. “Please do send me more data,” he said, “Perhaps I could conduct some experiments in our laboratories.”

_Is this the best I can do? Shouldn’t I do more? Am I being selfish? Am I putting my needs above those of my people?_

The Ambassador nodded, falling silent, and his eyes wandered away from his son to examine the traditional artefacts adorning his room. Spock too was quiet, wondering whether he should choose a different topic of conversation or excuse himself altogether. He could easily pick up the sounds of Jim shuffling about in their joint bathroom, turning the water on, off, on, and off again with a muffled curse. Finally, the human called for him: “Hey, Spock! My toothpaste’s finished!” He was clearly talking around his toothbrush, and half a second later he peered inside the Vulcan’s quarters, peeking out his golden head from the door. “Mind if I use yours?” he asked.

Ignoring his father’s eloquent eyebrow raise, Spock gave his assent: “You may suit yourself, Jim,” he answered, watching his Captain disappear back behind the door, shouting a cheerful: “Thank you!” as he ran the water once more.

“You appear to be quite informal around your Captain,” Sarek mused, not precisely looking at his face, “He surely is very relaxed in his interactions with you.”

“We are friends.” Spock stated simply, part of him awaiting almost eagerly his father’s response to such a challenge. “It is the custom.”

“Is it, now?” Sarek questioned, cocking his head to the side and folding his hands the same way his son had done before.

The Science Officer’s reply was drowned by Jim’s enthusiastic voice as he let himself into the room without asking for consent: “Oi, Spock, you busy?” His blue eyes fell on the pile of PADDs on the Vulcan’s desk, and he looked back at him, smiling wide, “It’s still early -wanna have a chat or something? Chess?” He walked to stand in front of Spock, and only then did he notice their silent spectator; he straightened a little, trying to appear more dignified, even if he was wearing a pair of loose pyjamas, and bowed: “Greetings, Ambassador! Am I interrupting?”

Spock turned around in his chair, secretly amused by his friend’s spontaneity, and motioned for him to sit nearby; Kirk took it as permission to climb on the desk and he settled comfortably next to the screen, shooting Sarek a very smug look as the Vulcan stared.

“Well, Jim.” The Commander started speaking as if nothing strange had occurred, arms crossed and eyes alight in focus. “It is most fortunate that you are here: I planned to ask you something.”

“I’m listening.”

Briefly, Spock explained the problem Sarek had just told him about, and Jim’s wide grin dissolved in a matter of seconds, replaced by a very grave expression. “For my research, I would require to visit the nearest Science Station -that would be on planet Ceti Alpha V, a mere three hours from where we are. If we could divert from our course… I can assure you I will not cause too long a delay.”

Kirk’s eyes softened: “Of course, Spock! You can have all the time you need.” He jumped up to his feet, always unable to keep still, “You know what? I’ll inform the Admiralty first thing tomorrow, and we can be off in fifteen hours’ time!”

“Thank you, Jim,” Spock felt a rush of pride, being able to show off his friend’s _good heart_ in front of his father. He was also pleased to know it did not show at all through his perfectly built emotionless façade.

“Thanks are illogical,” the Captain told him, winking; then he grew serious again: “It’s our duty now to preserve Vulcan. Nothing can be left to chance.”

“A most farsighted and generous perspective, Captain Kirk,” Sarek complimented, “I shall depend upon you contacting me soon with new developments.” He raised his hand in the _ta’al_ , and cut communications when both Spock and Jim had reciprocated.

After a few moments of silence, the Vulcan asked, very quietly: “Do you believe my father is avoiding looking me in the face?”

Kirk blinked at the sudden question: “ _Uhm_ ,” he mumbled, thinking quickly, “He shouldn’t, should he?”

A soft, non-existent sigh escaped Spock’s lips. “I believe he is becoming increasingly displeased with the sight of my eyes.”

“Your _eyes_.” Jim felt the nearly overwhelming urge to check his First’s pulse and see if he was running some sort of fever. “Are you… uh… sure? Your eyes?”

“My _human_ eyes,” Spock clarified, lowering his gaze to stare at his own folded hands. He looked up when a warm touch brushed his shoulder briefly, and his Captain said gently: “Perhaps they remind him of your mother. Perhaps he misses her so much it hurts to see her eyes in yours.”

_Mother. It’s been four years, one month, seven days since I lost you. T’nash-veh Ko-mekh._

“I… had not thought about that,” A small frown creased his forehead as he pondered the new explanation. “But it is likely.”

Jim surveyed him worriedly as another pause stretched between them: his mouth was pressed close in a thin, stern line, his fingers twitched as if out of irritation or frustration, and he was pale. “Spock, are you alright?”

Silence. Then… “Captain, I believe I am experiencing a rather… unpleasant emotion.” Spock blurted out unexpectedly, finally looking up at him. From his place perched upon the desk, Kirk smiled encouragingly. “I believe it is called… guilt.”

“ _Guilt_?” Jim repeated, surprised, “And what the hell do _you_ have to feel guilty about?”

“I cannot seem to be able to let go of my human part,” the half-blood confessed, blunt and sincere, addressing his problem as if he had been talking about some sort of experiment. “Not even in the face of extinction. Not even when it is almost imperative that I be fully Vulcan for my people.” Dark chocolate eyes met blue ones, filling with remorse and insecurity: “It is my duty, and I am failing to perform it.”

“Spock.” Kirk suppressed a shiver at seeing just how conflicted, how restless his friend was -his tension so evident it almost hurt, like an open wound left to bleed, like heartbreak. “Even if you _were_ fully Vulcan… it would not change _anything_. What is, is, right? You can’t blame yourself for what happened! It wasn’t your fault, now, was it?”

He dropped down from the desk so he could stand in front of him, arms crossed, brow furrowed. “You did everything in your power to help -we saved so many! So few, I know, yet so many more than was expected!” His voice was fierce, passionate, and Spock was utterly speechless and could only stare in wonder, not having predicted such a strong reaction. “ _Please_ , stop feeling guilty for something entirely out of your control.”

Jim had taken to whispering, now, and had yet to lower his gaze from that of his second in command. “New Vulcan won’t _die_ if you’re a little bit human.” A smile so kind it shone lit his face as a raising sun would, and the Captain tapped a finger against his wrist. “Because you _are_ , and it’s special and _fascinating_.”

Spock’s eyebrows hiked up his forehead, almost disappearing beneath his neatly-cut fringe. He was about to open his mouth and offer a logical reply, but Jim’s finger jumped in front of his face, rendering him silent. “It’s not _bad_. Okay? Not bad at all. You can do so much more than what a simple Vulcan -or a simple human, for that matter- can even imagine.”

The Captain slapped his back playfully, eyes darkening in mischief as he made to leave: “Never thought you could be _both_ , and excel?”

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> AN: Okay, that’s it! I’ll leave Spock’s guilt unresolved, because his conflict cannot be vanished with just a few words, not even Kirk’s. I hope you liked it!
> 
> Coming soon: Jealousy, or when Spock realises he would very much like to monopolise Jim’s attentions! And situations will be reversed, this time, I promise I’m not trying to write 100 Vulcan emotional problems and how to cope with them. Jim will be the one to need a hug!
> 
>  
> 
> Cheers! Hope to see you soon :3


	3. Jealousy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “The Lieutenant has been shadowing the Captain almost obsessively for the past 3.47 days, and though he is clearly uncomfortable in her presence, he never requested she leave.” He paused for the fraction of a second before adding, in a lower tone, “Moreover, she has interrupted and even prevented my interactions with Jim 67 times, and he already left four games of chess unfinished for her sake. I do not understand.”   
> McCoy drowned a laughter in his glass at hearing his complaint, while Uhura was left to pat the Vulcan’s shoulder gently to console him: “Poor Spock, wanting Jim all for himself.”  
> The tips of Spock’s ears turned green. “I do not…”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> May I present to you... chapter 3 ?
> 
> Please, enjoy!

**_3_ **

**_Jealousy_ **

 

The laboratory was wrapped up in silence and stillness that evening as Spock worked with alacrity. Jim watched him, comfortably leaning into a chair, a PADD in one hand and a stylus in the other while he carelessly signed boring reports. The Vulcan was concentrating deeply, half-bent on a microscope, pale fingers dancing lightly from one slide to the other, blue uniform shirt covered by white robes that were almost eerily spotless; he was surrounded by set after set of phials and samples, and there was a certain air of absolute focus, an almost single-minded attentiveness that brought tiny creases to his forehead and made Kirk chuckle internally to hide that irrational urge to disrupt his calm which surged in his chest whenever he was allowed to assist his friend with his experiments.

It seemed as if the whole world had disappeared entirely for Spock, leaving nothing but his research behind. Of course, Jim knew that the Vulcan was well aware of his surroundings, probably even more than he himself was, and that he would be ready immediately should he need him, but he still couldn’t keep himself from being a little jealous -just slightly so.

The Vulcan’s gaze landed briefly on him and he quirked an eyebrow, letting his chocolate eyes lighten up in amusement at the Captain’s very disgruntled expression. “Fascinating,” he said.

Jim grimaced, sticking his tongue out at him in a very childish gesture especially designed to tease him. “That makes it thirteen times you said it in… what? Three hours?”

“Two point eight-nine hours, Jim,” Spock corrected automatically, bowing his head again to peer inside the microscope. “I see you have been counting. I find it also _fascinating_.”

“Bones and I have a wager going on.” Kirk stated matter-of-factly, jumping up from his sitting position. He paced quickly to stand right behind the Science Officer, close enough that the Vulcan could feel the heat radiating from his body; it was not unpleasant, so he held still, not lifting his eyes from his slide.

“I can’t tell you any details, though. You won’t like it one bit.” Jim waited for Spock to comment. He didn’t -he was once more sifting through his test tubes thoughtfully. _There_ , Kirk was jealous again. “Hey, are you even listening?”

“I _am_ listening, Jim,” the Vulcan murmured patiently, tipping a clear green liquid into a beaker with the utmost care and precision. “I did not believe your statement required answering to. You are quite adamant you will not go into detail should I ask, thus I…”  

Jim laughed openly. “Alright, alright, you win! _Stubborn_ Vulcan.” He looked down at the now yellowish mixture Spock was stirring: “Found anything new there?”

“Perhaps,” the Commander said cautiously, “But more time is necessary for me to draw conclusions.”

“Cool,” Kirk said in earnest, clearly eager for him to continue his musings and at least elaborate; finding himself rather pleased to have such an enthusiastic audience, the scientist couldn’t help but begin a detailed dissertation about the different properties of the _mashya_ -a tuberous vegetable once pretty common on Vulcan- and the various biological aspects which prevented it from adapting to the new colonies’ environment. Jim listened -he _really_ listened- interrupting him occasionally to ask a question or put in an observation or two -and those were the bright, inspired remarks Spock liked best.

“Fascinating,” he commented at last, “You are most supportive.”

The human shrugged, smiling. “So I guess you’ll be able to help your people, right?”

“I am inclined to believe so, yes.”

A shrill beeping broke the quiet of the laboratory, and Kirk reluctantly moved away from the microscope to answer the incoming call. It was Scotty: “Captain, Lieutenant Janice Lester is awaiting permission to beam up,” he said, “Can I proceed?”

Spock raised an eyebrow at his friend as he saw him go very pale and then blush furiously in rapid succession: “Great news, Scotty, proceed!” he exclaimed, jumping up to his feet without giving the Vulcan a second glance, “Sorry, Spock, gotta scram,” he muttered, and left.

His second in command huffed silently before he returned to his experiment, not allowing himself to feel even the slightest bit of annoyance at his Captain’s hastened departure. _Illogical human_.

 

* * *

 

 

“Hello, Nyota. Are you pleased with your evening?” Spock asked in his usual monotone, not lifting his eyes from his Captain’s golden head. The communications officer chuckled softly as she let herself fall into a seat next to her former boyfriend. “Can’t complain,” she said amiably, crossing her legs and smiling up at him, eyes twinkling in secret amusement. “You?”

“I believe the human phrase would be ‘I have had worse days’. Though that would imply a preference.” He pressed his lips closed as Uhura snickered lively. “Kirk dragged you into this, didn’t he?”

“Indeed.” The Vulcan raised both eyebrows at Jim, who was sitting at a somewhat secluded table next to a woman with reddish brown hair and shifty blue eyes. “I wonder why he so insisted that I attend if he…” Again, he fell abruptly quiet.

“If he’s paying you no notice, is that what you want to say?” Nyota grinned warmly, giving him a very knowing look and shutting him down as soon as he tried to fight her statement: “You can’t fool me, Spock, it would be illogical to make the effort.”

Spock nodded, yielding gracefully. He harboured quite a strong affection towards this particular human -she was the first one to ever see behind his mask, the first to express a wish to get to know him as he was, the first to accept him as family; even after she ended their relationship, he still confided in her more than everyone else. “Do you believe it would seem rude of me to leave the party this early in the evening?”

Nyota’s soft fingers came to rest on his wrist, a wordless request to stay: “Just keep me company for a while, ok?”

“Of course,” Spock acquiesced, resigned. His gaze landed again on the Captain’s laughing face -he appeared to be nervous, he was blushing, and the woman beside him was regarding him in a rather disquieting way.

“You know, I’m a little jealous.” Uhura said playfully, resting her chin in both her palms. “I’ve never seen you this protective of someone.”

Not bothering to contradict her, the Vulcan cocked his head to the side and replied flatly: “I have never seen one who needed protection as much as Jim does.”

“Damn right you haven’t,” grumbled McCoy, sitting down at his right, a glass of Bourbon clutched firmly in one hand. He motioned towards his best friend: “See how he’s gotten all friendly with that Janice Lester? Again. The idiot.”

“You don’t like her?” Nyota leaned back on her chair to stare at the doctor, “Neither do I. She seems a little too… well…” She appeared to be uncertain which word to choose, so Spock filled in helpfully: “Furtive. Evasive. Ill-willing.”

“Woah, didn’t think you had it in you to notice,” Leonard whistled at the Vulcan, clearly impressed. “You’re making progress!”

“Why, _thank you_ , doctor,” The commander’s voice was pure sass. He turned to send a new death glare at Janice Lester’s auburn hair. “The Lieutenant has been shadowing the Captain almost obsessively for the past 3.47 days, and though he is clearly uncomfortable in her presence, he never requested she leave.” He paused for the fraction of a second before adding, in a lower tone, “Moreover, she has interrupted and even prevented my interactions with Jim 67 times, and he already left four games of chess unfinished for her sake. I do not understand.”

McCoy drowned a laughter in his glass at hearing his complaint, while Uhura was left to pat the Vulcan’s shoulder gently to console him: “Poor Spock, wanting Jim all for himself.”

The tips of Spock’s ears turned green. “ _I do not…_ ”

Nyota interrupted him again: “So she basically sequestered him, right? Leonard, what’s the story? Tell us.”

The CMO shrugged, still fairly busy making fun of his commander. “She’s Jim’s first real crush,” he informed them, “They met sometime before the Academy. He was pretty serious about her, too, only she dumped him.” He grimaced, sending a murderous stare down at his now empty glass: “Probably realised the Kelvin Boy wasn’t gonna grant her a career.” He made a scornful sound and crossed his arms sharply. “Guess now that he’s Captain he’s alright.” An exasperated sigh made his shoulders sag and his frown soften: “Jim’s too good to see her for the scum she is.”

“A social climber,” Uhura commented, disgusted, “Figures. I bet he’s too crazy about her to think clearly.”

Spock rose suddenly, expression as hard as stone. “Excuse me,” he muttered, maybe rushing his words a little more than was expected of him, “I must take my leave. I have important matters to attend to.”

“In a pig’s eye you do,” McCoy called at his retreating back.

 

* * *

 

 

Spock stared morosely at the chessboard and, more importantly, at the seat across from his desk that the Captain had just vacated. One pale fingertip brushed the crown of Jim’s white King, then tipped it with a sharp motion so un-Vulcan like that the Science Officer felt the compelling need to get up and cleanse his room of all evidence by clearing the table completely. As he examined the chess pieces one by one, he thought about what Uhura had said - _You know, I’m a little jealous_ \- and of Jim’s hurried departure.

“You don’t mind, do you, Spock?” he had asked. _I find I do mind, in fact_ , he realised with an almost invisible start.

He placed the tri-dimensional board neatly on top of a shelf and moved to kneel on his meditation mat, breathing slowly through the rich scent of incense permeating the room. _Vulcans have no need for friendship_ , he reminded himself sternly. His eyes fluttered shut and he rested his hands on his thighs, listening to the quiet buzz of the ship’s engines, to the distant chatter of the humans surrounding him, to what were clearly, for him, the sounds of home.

_Am I really jealous?_

Perhaps he _had_ taken the habit to monopolise Jim’s attentions -perhaps he _was_ overprotective of him -perhaps he really _did_ want him _all by himself_ …

It wasn’t that he was opposed to Jim spending time with others (not excessively, at least); it wouldn’t have even occurred to him to mind if the human had been in the company of the doctor or the rest of alpha crew, but that woman, that Janice Lester reeked of danger -her behaviour, her countenance, her manner of speaking… it was all absolutely suspicious. And Kirk had been downright rude to him in the past 4.1 days because of her.

_“You don’t mind, do you, Spock?” “Sorry, Spock, gotta go!” “Hey, catch up with you later, now I’ll just…” “See ya, Spock, I’m kinda late!” “Look, today I’m busy, ok?” “Could we do this another time?” “Next time I’ll be there for sure!”_

_It does not do to dwell on the past. Kaiidth._

He rose almost at once when his PADD beeped, signalling an incoming message. He did not admit to being disappointed when he opened the window to find an email from doctor McCoy, instead of a much needed apology from Jim.

_The idiot is messing up with Lester. I’m worried about him._

Hissing sharply, Spock typed in an answer quickly: _‘I fail to see how the Captain’s private life is any of my business.’_

Thirty seconds pause, then another beeping. _Don’t be a pain in the ass and go rescue him._

The Vulcan arched an eyebrow. Choosing to ignore the all too familiar insult, he wrote: _‘I refuse. If you are so concerned for the Captain’s well-being, I suggest you go and rescue him yourself.’_

_As if he’d listen to me. And as if I haven’t tried._

_‘It appears then that we are at a moot point. Please cease trying to involve me further in the matter.’_

_Come on, you dense hobgoblin, he was already a little tipsy when I saw him and she’s up to no good. Go find him before it’s too late._

Spock could almost see the scowling coming from the annoying words. _Go find him before it’s too late._ For 2.389 seconds, he contemplated leaving Jim to his own devices, then he heaved a mental sigh, knowing full well it was never going to happen.

_‘Very well.’_

_Good boy._

_‘Please, doctor, desist.’_

 

* * *

 

 

The two humans he was looking for were in Observation Deck 5, huddled together in a corner, sitting very close to one another in front of a low desk. As per usual, he drew a slow breath, taking in the scents lingering in the area -there was something vaguely unsettling, yet he couldn’t quite point his finger at it.

“Come on, Jim, dear, drink up,” Janice Lester was saying, laughter in her tone.

Carefully, the Vulcan approached them, moving to stand behind his outrageously drunk Captain. Somehow, he seemed to sense his presence, for he turned swiftly towards him. His whole face lit up with a smile that shone like a thousand suns (or at least, Spock would have been inclined to think so had he been prone to poetry). “Hey, Spock,” Kirk greeted him happily.

The woman glared openly at the Science Officer, but she flashed an alluring smile at Jim as soon as his slightly unfocused blue eyes fell upon her _pretty face_.

“Captain, I suggest you take your leave now.” Spock’s whole body could have been carved out of stone for all of his stillness.

“No, we’re having _fun_! Don’t be such a killjoy!” Jim’s voice was slurred, and when he drank another sip from his glass, he swayed in his place, chuckling absentmindedly. “ _Spock_. Spock. Your name’s funny. Spock. _Sp-ock_.”

“We were just talking about you, Mister Spock,” Lieutenant Lester interjected before the Vulcan could reply to Kirk’s utterly incongruous statement. “Dear Jim here says he’s going to make _me_ First Officer. Don’t you, Jim?”

_What?_

“Oh, yes, yes,” Jim hastened to reply, grinning foolishly at his flabbergasted second in command. “Whatcha doin’ ‘ere, Spock?”

_What?_

Spock planted a hand firmly on the back of Kirk’s chair as if to stake his claim upon him. “I believe you are quite mistaken, Lieutenant,” he all but growled, “Jim would never make such a choice.”

“But he did.”

_He did, did he not?_

Jim laughed softly and looped an arm around Spock’s elbow, pulling him closer even as he attempted to escape him. “Whatever. Hey, Spock, you look tense. What’s up?”

The Vulcan frowned minutely. Forget jealous. He was hurt. “Captain, when were you planning on informing me of your decision?” _When were you planning on informing me of your betrayal?_

“What decision?” The maddening human actually had the gall to look confused. Before Spock could press the matter, Janice extended one hand and brushed long fingers across Kirk’s cheek, stroking lightly in a sickly attempt to appear affectionate.

This human female was testing Spock’s patience greatly -he had to exercise his full control to keep himself from simply attacking her.

“I’m your new First Officer, am I not, Jim?” She demanded -so sure of herself. As if he’d already signed the papers. “There can’t well be two of us, I’m certain you understand.” The Vulcan flinched, but then Jim’s brow furrowed, and he glanced at him in a somewhat alarmed manner: “Wait, what? _Spock_ ’s my First Officer.” He set down his glass and rotated his chair to face his friend. “Right, Spock?” And he really _did_ seem in need of reassurance.

“Of course I am, Jim,” Spock said softly, relieved beyond measure. He leaned down to sniff at the contents of his very dubious drink: “I believe you have been drugged, sir.”

For a brief instant, the human looked as though he was about to burst out laughing -or crying, the Vulcan couldn’t really decide which. Then he shook his golden head and it was as if all his strength had drained from his body. He paled: “Janice? Is that true?”

“What do you think, _Jimmy dear_?” There was a sudden shift in atmosphere. Janice Lester had dropped all pretence of sweetness: her eyes went cold as ice and an impossible air of frozen anger surrounded her; Spock, who had made the mistake of lowering his shields infinitesimally, shivered in response to the sudden onslaught of negative feelings. Disgust flared in his stomach, fuelling his carefully suppressed rage as he automatically shifted even closer to his Captain.

The woman sneered, pulling a loaded phaser out of thin air, and aimed it at the seemingly stoic Vulcan -a logical decision, since he was the most immediate and most dangerous threat. Spock gracefully raised both eyebrows, daring -almost inviting- the weak, presumptuous human to carry on with her preposterous plan just to give him a reason to lash out at her.

“Leave him be, Janice,” the golden human snarled immediately. Then Jim -drugged, confused Jim- rose from his chair to stand in front of his once-lover, eyes narrowed in fury. He held his hands behind his back, and it was only because of this that his second in command noticed they were shaking. Spock allowed himself point seven-three seconds to consider the irrational, odd warmth that spread in his chest and at his side at seeing his gesture -he did not require Jim’s protection since he was three times stronger than him at his best, notwithstanding the fact that Kirk was also heavily intoxicated, and yet he felt curiously secure knowing the human was that loyal. Covertly, Spock slid one hand under his elbow to give him the support he needed, and graced Lester with one of his well-practiced unperturbed stares. “Fascinating. It appears doctor McCoy was right for once. You _are_ up to no good.”

“Just be quiet, Vulcan. Don’t think I’m going to let you spoil my fun here.” Janice cocked her head to the side, auburn hair falling loosely on her left shoulder, and raised her gun to point it directly at Spock’s head. It was set on _kill_.

“What the hell do you want from us, Janice?” Jim looked as if every word cost him an enormous effort, and still he stood, tall and proud, refusing to give in to the drug.

“That’s easy. Captaincy. I’ll make it look as if you two killed each other over me and seize your place.” She shrugged. “Piece of cake.”

“Unlikely,” Spock informed her evenly.

“Any last wish, Vulcan?”

The First Officer recognized the metallic glint in her eyes that preceded the kill, and acted accordingly: he marched forward in a blink and slipped behind her, fingers sliding along her neck to perform an effortless nerve-pinch that left the woman falling in a heap on the floor. Her desperate shot hit the opposite wall with a loud screech.

Stepping over Lester’s unmoving body, Spock reclaimed his place at Jim’s side, calling security in the meanwhile and instructing them to lock the mutinous woman in the brig.

“Jee, Spock, that was close!” wheezed Kirk, collapsing on his chair. “Damn it. I’m such a fucking idiot. I should have seen it coming.” He hid his face in his hands, massaging his temples lightly. Spock hovered next to him, uncertain whether to summon McCoy just yet, and the human revelled in his close proximity -his utter calm, his balance, his silent strength grounded him, kept him sane in times like this. “God, you must think I’m a fool.”

“I think no such thing, Jim,” the Vulcan assured him, then he grasped his arm to pull him up on his feet. “Please allow me to escort you to sickbay.”

Jim let him support most of his weight, and they slowly made their way down to sickbay, where the good doctor seized possession of his young friend, fretting noisily around him.

“You’re a damn mess, kid, just be grateful the goblin’s patient enough to babysit you…” he grumbled, shooting a Hypo at his exposed neck. Kirk didn’t even attempt to escape him. “Now I _did_ warn you, didn’t I?”

The Captain sighed. “Cut it, Bones, I really can’t do this right at this moment.” He relaxed only when the doctor pulled him into a tight embrace, patting his back with an air of resigned indulgence that softened his features somehow.

Spock wondered briefly if he should have offered that kind of comfort to his friend. He made to leave, not wanting to intrude.

Jim raised his head and gave him a rueful smile: “Forgive me?”

The Vulcan’s eyes sparkled, lips quirking upwards just so, and he nodded: “You are forgiven.”

“Chess tomorrow?”

“I am amenable.” Spock approved, thoroughly pleased by his request. “Sleep well, Jim.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Aaaand…. It’s done! 3/100. I’m making progress.  
> So, a few notes… Janice Lester is from TOS, obviously; she is younger and more inexperienced, I wanted her to have a very confused, vaguely shaped, impulsive plan for seizing Jim’s place, but essentially she’s the same. I’ll be making lots of references to the original series because I just love it too much.  
> Stay tuned! Next one will be Trust -some action and also very young Saavik!   
> Thank you to all who read, left a comment and generally gave this story a chance! And a special thanks to the awesome @Tenchi <3
> 
> LLAP!


	4. Trust

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Surak’s teachings filled his brain idly as he broke them, seeking vengeance. It did not matter that in order to survive he had to kill, it did not matter that it was necessary, even logical to bring death and more death -what mattered, what truly mattered, was the intention, the motives behind his actions. And right then, the Vulcan was murderous.
> 
> Eventually, it was over.
> 
> He rushed up the narrow staircase Jim had pointed out, fighting bitterly against the clouds growing darker and thicker in his mind, tearing apart the fog with sheer willpower, commanding himself to stay focused -Stay focused, there is no pain, there is only quiet, stay focused, quiet, only quiet, be quiet, hush, hush, hush, hush!
> 
> “Jim!” he called into the chip as he set foot on a wide terrace. “Captain, can you beam us up?” Carefully, he stepped towards the edge, but was forced to retreat as soon as he glanced down into what could easily be classified as an abyss. Do not panic, Spock chastised himself, do not panic.
> 
> “Spock, listen…” Kirk’s voice was just the distraction he needed. “Do you trust me?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So let’s get down to business! This is a turning point in Spock and Kirk’s relationship; a healthy mix of angst, Surak’s principles, Vulcan telepathy and Vulcan children! Also, I have this AU (not quite AU, but very close) that Aos Spock is actually great with children, as opposed to Tos Spock’s poor skills, so bear with me if he is born a parent. ^.^  
> Now be WARNED: there is some violence and death in here!  
> Regarding Saavik: I have no idea how old she is in Tos, but I tried to keep her as much in canon as possible!  
> Please enjoy!

**_4_ **

**_Trust_ **

 

“Of course we would very much like doing business with you. We have received word Ambassador Sarek’s son is on board: we would speak with him.”

Captain Kirk rolled his eyes at the ceiling, crossing his arms before smirking at the Vulcan standing calmly behind him: “See, Spock? You have a reputation,” he chuckled. Reopening the channel with the planet’s surface, he said: “Of course, Mister Spock will be part of the landing party.”

There was a short silence on the other side as the diplomat they were talking to considered their offer: “We will speak with him, and him only. You will have to meet our conditions if you want access to our dilithium.”

There was a collective intake of breath -everyone was considering the implications of an eventual refusal: they had very clear orders to secure an agreement for possession of Raiti II’s dilithium mines at all costs, after all. Spock turned towards his Captain; their eyes met, held, communicating silently. “Is there any way we can persuade you to change your mind?” Jim asked slowly.

“I believe not,” was the sharp answer from the surface. “We will trust him only.”

For a brief instant, the only sounds on the bridge were the beeping of computers, the quiet buzz of the engines, the crew’s mixed breaths and heartbeats. “Very well,” Kirk yielded reluctantly, “He’ll be on his way. Please send us the right coordinates as soon as possible. Captain Kirk out.”

“Coordinates received, sir!” Uhura announced. Biting her lip, she added: “If I may, Captain, I don’t like this.”

“Neither do I!” piped in Mister Sulu, twisting around in his chair so he could see Jim’s stern expression. “I mean, why him alone?”

Spock shook his head, vacating his place as soon as Kirk, too, moved towards the turbolift. “At this point, sirs, we can only speculate. Nothing is to be left untried to seal this agreement: it is vital the Klingons stay far away from new dilithium deposits. Therefore, I shall go.”

“You have the conn, Mister Sulu,” the Captain called when the doors closed behind them. Then he rounded on the Vulcan waiting patiently by his side: “I hate this! I wish there was…” He sighed softly, shrugged. “What is, is, I know, I know, don’t give me that look. I want you to bring a phaser and stay in constant contact with us. That’s an order.”

“Understood, sir.”

They found both Scotty and McCoy waiting for them in the transporter room; the doctor looked, if possible, even more annoyed than usual, and he immediately planted himself in front of his best friend, glowering: “You’re not really sending him down there alone,” he hissed, eyes open wide and smothering.

“We are all well aware of the risks, Leonard,” Spock volunteered, stepping on the platform with his customary unfazed grace. “The Captain _in primis_.”

“Don’t you Latin me, pointy,” snarled the CMO, gesturing wildly towards him, “You could be beaming down in a damn trap, and be happy about it!”

Before Spock could rise to his challenge, Jim raised a hand in admonishment: “Bones. There is nothing either of us can do about it, and you know it.” When the doctor huffed and fell silent, Kirk turned towards his Chief engineer: “Scotty, have you checked the coordinates?”

“Aye, sir,” Scotty answered promptly, “They should be safe, far as I kno’.”

The Captain nodded his head at him, then walked to Spock: “At the first sign of danger you call us and we beam you back up. We want an agreement, not a war.”

“Of course, Jim,” the Vulcan murmured. If he noticed the small object Jim had slipped inside his pocket, he didn’t show it. “I shall do my best to ensure the safety of all parties.”

Kirk smiled, stepped back. “Energize!”

Spock felt the familiar tingling sensation of his atoms being shattered and pulled together again, and readied himself to greet the chief diplomat of Raiti II.

Something had gone terribly wrong, though. He was completely unprepared for the lack of oxygen in the room he had beamed down in, completely unprepared for the sickening scent that filled his nostrils as he gasped desperately, falling to the floor in a trembling heap, pupils dilated and chest heaving.

He did try to reach for his communicator -he honestly did. But his head was spinning horribly, his throat constricted, and suddenly the world went black.

* * *

 

When he awoke he was sitting in a cell with his back against an iron wall. All his mental shields were gone, replaced by an odd, unpleasant feeling of nakedness he had never experienced before; he closed his eyes in an attempt at steadying himself enough to think of a way to escape, but as he delved deep in his own reeling mind, he was thrown off-track by a sudden striking realisation.

He was not alone.

Ever since the destruction of Vulcan, four years, three months and seventeen days before, the humming network of thin bonds residing in the very core of his brain had been almost completely silenced, leaving nothing but a gaping hole in their wake. In his wish to maintain control, he had immediately shut the pain out under layer after layer of resignation and reason, adjusting with some difficulty to his new condition of appalled loneliness.

He could survive without the bonds, he told himself firmly.

And _yet_.

The loss of his people had made him vulnerable, and a small, not entirely suppressed part of him kept reaching out, striving to fill the void that still threatened to engulf him, consume him. Thus he knew, on an instinctual, barely conscious level, that he was not alone, for a tiny, silvery thread had abruptly come to life in the darkness of his mind, shining dimly but steadily, latching to the one external presence that was his kin and his salvation.

Spock breathed evenly through the smells of disinfectant and antiseptic invading the cubicle he was currently locked in, and raised himself upon his knees to press the palms of his hands on the wall, fingers spread wide, searching…

_‘T’nar pak sorat y’rani’_ , he greeted formally to the young mind he brushed against - _a child, a child in here!_ He willed away his anger and outrage so the youngling would not be forced to face them. _‘I have followed the kash-naf to find you.’_

He was met with a stunned silence and the flutter of confused thoughts, and waited patiently for the infant prisoner to decide he was not a threat to her -for she was a female, that much was certain. Then: ‘ _T’nar jaral’_ , she answered calmly. _‘I am Saavik, age nine.’_

_‘I am S’chn T’gai Spock, son of Sarek and First Officer aboard the USS Enterprise.’_

He picked up on her surprise quite easily. _‘You are commander Spock?’_

_‘Indeed.’_ Spock allowed himself a small pause in which he contemplated his predicament. _‘Child, there seems to be something clouding my mind. Do you happen to know…’_

_‘Yes!’_ she interrupted eagerly, and their mental link rippled with the force of her anxiety, _‘They gave it to all of us when we were stolen. It is a drug, but it acts differently from person to person.’_

The Commander’s eyes narrowed as he considered the implications of what she had just said. _‘There are others?’_ he simply asked.

_‘Children like me.’_ Saavik’s mental voice was strained, carrying hints of deep rage, heart-breaking sadness, burning disbelief, terrible guilt, infinite weariness -Vulcan emotions laid bare for Spock to touch; perhaps to offer some balance, he sent her wave after wave of comforting warmth, and pride that she had survived and maintained such strength she was showing. _‘They are dead now. I am the last.’_

Spock had always been a most excellent telepath, and it was only thanks to his outstanding abilities that he was able to shield the infant from the murderous flare of his own feelings of fury and his desire for vengeance - _children, they had killed children, rare, precious Vulcan children, innocent children, and nobody knew, nobody helped them, nobody did a thing…_

His broadcasted thoughts held nothing of such harshness. They were soft and caring and gentle: _‘Do not fear, Saavik,’_ he murmured, _‘I will free you from this place and return you…’_ he hesitated, _‘home.’_

_‘You do not make this promise lightly,’_ she stated, tentatively reaching a mental tendril towards him, seeking him out for the first time. _‘Are you certain you can keep it?’_

Spock drew her even closer, attempting to provide for her some kind of reassurance, that idea of safety that came from knowing a parent -an adult, someone who was stronger and more powerful- was willing to protect and shield her from any harm. _‘I am, most assuredly.’_ He slipped his hand inside his pocket and examined the tiny chip Jim had left him -he would never stop being grateful for this wonderful, amazing human whose sheer intuition had saved his and the crew’s lives more often than not: the aliens who had captured him had divested him of his phaser and communicator, but the chip had gone unnoticed and now Spock held it high in front of his face and activated it. _‘I believe Captain Kirk has a plan.’_

_‘Do you trust him?’_ Saavik was wary and tired and hungry and afraid, yet the cautious hope she felt slithered past those negative emotions directly into the Commander’s mind, almost begging for assurance.

_‘I trust him.’_

* * *

 

“Damn it, damn it, damn it,” Jim snarled, frustrated, pulling at a wire in utter exasperation. Scotty shot him a murderous glare which was met by an apologetic glance. “Sorry.”

Two hours and a half had passed since Spock had beamed planet-side. As soon as they lost his signal, Kirk had put his crew at work to get it back; they had yet to breach the powerful shields surrounding the area where the Vulcan had disappeared, even with the combined efforts of Chekov’s genius, Uhura’s unprecedented skill and Scotty’s bizarre creativity. Jim had left Sulu in command, opting to help his Chief Engineer in finding a way to improve their sensors’ range.

“Bridge to Captain, please acknowledge.”

“Kirk here!” Jim rushed towards the intercom, eyes burning with hope, “Uhura, tell me you have good news!”

“I’m sorry, sir,” Nyota’s voice was strained with a hint of barely-suppressed anger, “Admiral Komak has just issued a command for us to leave the area.”

“I’m on my way!”

And he made a beeline for the bridge. It turned out Komak wanted them to preside over a diplomatic meeting on a planet that was halfway across the galaxy. “Tell Starfleet they can go and fuck themselves,” Jim growled angrily, “They put us in this mess, now they’ll wait for me to pull us out, and diplomacy be damned!” He shook his head, then stretched his lips in a lopsided smile: “You might want to rephrase that, Lieutenant.”

Nyota snickered softly before composing a much more formal message containing their refusal to obey their orders at once. “Also, contact Ambassador Sarek. Let’s see if he agrees with the situation -perhaps he can talk some sense into Starfleet.” Kirk settled down in his chair, looked up gravely at McCoy -who was standing silently at his left: “From now on, I take full responsibility of my actions. If you want to call yourselves out, please say so right now and it will be noted in my log.”

A few minutes of stubborn silence met his statement, and Kirk grinned. The absorbed quiet was eventually broken by Chekov, who jumped up, hands still glued to his console. “I have _zem_ , sir!” he almost yelled in his eagerness, “ _Ze_ scans! We did it!” Sulu shot him a proud, winning look before returning to his own station.

“I have the best crew,” Kirk complimented, “On screen!”

“Done, sir,” Uhura said, examining with great, focused interest the picture on the screen: the building they had tried so hard to scan resembled an ancient _ziggurat_ turned upside down in a rather disturbing effect; several floors seemed to be occupied by rows and rows of prison cells, while the highest and largest housed a surprisingly developed science lab. Suddenly, understanding dawned upon the woman’s face, and her fingers flew over her controls. She shut down a few frequencies, opened a channel, then…  

“I have him, sir!”

As Kirk had intended when giving the Vulcan the chip, the channel opened directly on the intercom of his chair. “Spock! Spock, _please_ tell me you’re functional.”

They all waited impatiently, holding their breaths, for the answer that came just a few seconds later. “Jim,” It was almost a sigh of relief. Almost. “I am keeping myself functional, yes.”

“That’s hardly an answer, you foolish, thick-headed hobgoblin…” burst out the doctor, worry etched deep on his tense features. Jim held up his hand again, silencing him: “Please, Bones. You can scold him later, now’s not the time.” He moved closer to the screen. “Listen, Spock, we have to get you out of there, but we can’t beam you up -you have to be quick, Starfleet delivered orders for us to leave at least half an hour ago.”

“You just _had_ to tell him, didn’t you? Now…” Leonard sounded frustrated. This time, he was interrupted by Spock himself, who had recently found he couldn’t have cared less about regulations. “Jim. I am not alone,” he began, talking fast, “There is a child -a _Vulcan_ child.”

“Vulcan?” Kirk’s growl entirely matched Spock’s own. “Lieutenant Uhura! Tell Starfleet _Vulcan children_! How many, Spock, how many?”

“She is the one survivor.” They heard a clacking noise when the First Officer gritted his teeth.

“ _One_?!” hissed Jim, “Tell them _dead_ Vulcan children!” A slow pause ensued as they waited for a reply; then Kirk rejoiced darkly: “Our orders have changed. We are now to occupy and if needed destroy this place! But first, the child…”

“I regret not being able to offer help, Jim,” Spock’s voice sounded strained. “I shall of course dispose of the enemy when possible.” If anyone on the bridge found the Vulcan’s choice of words weird or out of character, they made no comment about it. “I am in no condition to conduct a covert operation…”

“No, Spock, you must care for the girl, she’s too precious to lose -you both are,” the Captain said quickly, “We’ve scanned the building inside out. I’ll lead you out of there as soon as there’s occasion.”

“I trust you, Jim,” Again, Spock’s phrasing was a little off, a little too spontaneous for the usually former and proper Vulcan.

“Spock, are you alright?”

“My mind has been tampered with,” came the flat, matter-of-fact explanation. “I am unsure how serious the damage is. But I told you already -I am keeping myself functional.”

“That’s great, Spock, hold on,” Jim murmured gently, not wanting to upset him further, “Be careful, ok? T’Pau’ll have my head if anything goes wrong with the kid. Or you.”

“I can hear aliens approaching,” was all Spock said, “Please stand by -I will dispose of them as soon as I’m outside the cell.”

He cut communications. Leonard frowned deeply. “Was that a _contraction_?”

“ _Bones_.” 

* * *

 

_‘Your Captain is a fine man,’_ Saavik’s voice touched his mind tentatively, bringing slivers of mixed hope and fear in its wake. _‘I now understand your faith in him.’_

Spock’s attention was already focused on the rapidly approaching sound of light steps against an iron floor. _‘What am I to expect, ko-kan?’_

She sent him a great number of images from her past experiences -years of confinement, years of pain and hunger and uncertainty and loss- and the Vulcan forced himself to examine them detachedly, maintaining control as best as he could. _‘I thank thee,’_ he whispered, _‘For thy trust in gifting me with thy private memories.’_

When the aliens came, he was ready: his pretence of dumb dizziness easily fooled his jailors, and he was roughly hoisted up and dragged outside; as soon as he set foot on the corridor, he burst into action. Ignoring the throbbing ache that was trying to make its way to the forefront of his mind - _There is no pain. There is. No. Pain_.- he broke free of the tight hold around his arms, and smashed a hand directly in the face of an alien, crushing the thin, weak bones with a sickening noise. A low growl filled his throat as he took them down methodically; there were three left of them -tall, lean, slightly stronger than he was but nothing he couldn’t deal with, especially considering that where he lacked in strength, he made up for it with the bare power of his unrestrained fury.

Long fingers clawed at his skin, drawing droplets of thick green blood, yet he grew all the fiercer for it, and he carelessly dodged their shots as they pointed phaser guns at him.

Spock had no need for weapons: he had an almost perfect knowledge of the _Suus Mahna_ , the martial art which dated back to those lost times when Vulcans were still ruthless warriors, and in the heat of the endless desert they made it their task to fight, to dominate, to perfect one’s body until it became invincible. And he knew of the dance of combat, the _sof’el’itju_ , that lent him grace and balance. For all of his confused mind, he was still an impressive opponent, something the enemy had not been expecting.

_They have indeed grown accustomed to the innocence of children_.

It was only when they were dead that he permitted himself to consider the extent of his wounds -his left arm was injured, the blue sleeve torn to show open green gashes; it did not matter, it was inconsequential. The enemies lay unmoving on the floor, and it was the most important thing. He turned at once, crossed the corridor to where he stopped in front of Saavik’s cell. The transparency of the force field allowed him to see the girl inside: trembling, thin, she stood as close as she could, a haunted expression on her bony face, fragile body clad in a loose gown that did a very poor job at warming her scarred skin. Wide eyes fixed on him, begging for freedom, for reassurance, for help.

The Vulcan’s fingers flew on the panel, and he pulled it apart methodically, harshly pressing the buttons until the too-delicate piece of machinery wailed in protest and the force field disappeared. The child ran to him, keeping an inch-wide distance, evidently trying to respect tradition… but Spock leaned down and scooped her up without a second thought - _too light, malnourished_ -  crushed her to his chest with his functioning arm. _‘It is only logical I carry you. I am faster and we must be quick.’_ If she realised he was making up excuses for the sake of her pride, she pretended she didn’t, choosing instead to lean her forehead in the hollow of his neck. _‘I shall keep you safe.’_

Then, reactivating communications, he called for his Captain: “Jim. Be quick. My control will not last infinitely.”

“Spock! Of course,” Jim’s voice was tense, focused. “At your left you should see a small door; open it: it leads to some sort of air duct, there should be stairs in it.” He paused, obviously waiting for Spock to acknowledge, giving him time to comply. The Vulcan slipped soundlessly inside the minuscule opening which could barely pass as a door, and was indeed faced with an interminable-looking ladder leading to what was certainly the almost invisible ceiling. “How far up, sir?” he asked, not wasting time and starting his climb as soon as he had made sure Saavik would not fall if he let go of her.

“I’ll tell you when to stop.”

“Very well.”

For a while there was nothing but silence, punctuated here and there by Jim’s calls of “Turn left,” “Watch your right,” and “Still functional?”

To distract his mind from the poison threatening to undo it completely, or at the very least lead it astray, he once again sought contact with the child he was carrying. Quietly, trustingly, they exchanged memories and thoughts, and he offered her an insight of what his childhood had been like on Vulcan, soothing her with images of scorching hot summers, of the blinding, comforting whiteness of the wide sun, of the awe-inspiring view of the dancing sands upon the unforgiving deserts, of I-Chaya’s patient growls as they ran through his mother’s alien garden. In return, she showed him her fears, her hopes -which she perceived as illogical, yet could not fully suppress- her desperate attempts at protecting her friends -those little children who had made her their leader- her shame at her half Romulan heritage.

That last feeling in particular he could relate to, and he experienced the need to quell her self-imposed embarrassment as he now understood all too well it was sterile and lead to nothing but upset, uncontrollable emotions… _‘Rest assured, kan-bu, I will not think any less of you for what you are. It is in Surak’s teachings: Shiyau thol'es k'thorai ri k'ahm. It is our actions that define us: much more than where we come from, it is where we choose to go which is truly important.’_

Saavik did not have a verbal answer to his statement, however Spock could easily tell she was already readjusting her beliefs to accommodate this new perspective, for such was the flexibility of children.

Finally, he reached the end of the ladder, coming to a stop where the back of his head brushed a dull grey ceiling, and he slithered softly through a slightly bigger door and into the adjacent, empty room. “Jim,” he called, almost a whisper. Before he could elaborate, the human was renewing his instructions: “You will need to go further up, Spock, where their shields are thinner. Cross the corridor, you will find a narrow staircase that leads to the top floor, and out.” He was about to comply -in fact, his injured arm, the one not supporting Saavik’s negligible weight, had already stretched towards the handle- when Kirk’s voice caused him to halt: “It will be… an unpleasant sight, Spock.”

And there was no mistaking the scent of death and rotten corpses filtering from behind the door. “Noted,” he said briefly, breathing heavily as though readying for a fight. He uttered an order for Saavik to keep her eyes closed, and braced himself for what was to come.

* * *

 

 

Years of serving Starfleet had not prepared him for the sight uncoiling itself before his disbelieving, slightly unfocused eyes. He felt feverish, his mind alternated moments of eerie sharpness to full seconds of almost complete blankness, but there was no way he could escape the truth he was forced to face; no amount of meditation or logic were ever going to spare him the aftermath of his ten-minute walk through that corridor -he shut his consciousness firmly, raising his shields against Saavik, who did not know, must never know…

She became his only focus point, the one thing to keep him sane and cold and reasoning, for she was alive, she was breathing, she was precious, she was… not one of them.

Them. Dead, broken children. They lay, half sitting, one next to the other, slumped against the high walls, unmoving, abandoned, lost. If Spock had mastered the ability of deceit, then perhaps he would have been able to fool himself into thinking they were living and asleep, caught in nightly terrors; their small faces were so pale, no colour left, slanted eyebrows and sharp mouths all curled in the same terrifying pained grimace. Everything was so _still_. He found himself incapable of stopping the light tremors that raked his arms and back -whether from the drug or the utter ugliness of what he saw, he did not know.

From time to time, scientists peeked their heads from the doors, and he spared them no sideway glance as he ruthlessly took them down one by one, before they even thought about sounding an alarm, before they even spotted him crossing the corridor with his usual intimidating composure, but with burning eyes that spoke of ancient pride and desert warriors. Again, had it not been for Saavik clinging to his chest and trying not to breathe, he would have fought them in a much more thorough way, he would have tortured them, branded them with the fire of his fury, showed them the price to pay for having taken so many lives.

_Kup-fun-tor ha'kiv na'ish du stau? (Can you return life to what you kill?)_

_Dom nam-tor vohris nem-tor ha'kiv. (Then be slow to take life.)_

_Nufau au sochya - yi dungi ma tu sochya._ _(Offer them peace, then you will have peace.)_

_Tilek svi'khaf-spol t'vathu - tilek svi'sha'veh. (The spear in the other's heart is the spear in your own.)_

_Vah mau vah tor-yehat ri stau. (As far as possible, do not kill.)_

Surak’s teachings filled his brain idly as he broke them, seeking vengeance. It did not matter that in order to survive he had to kill, it did not matter that it was necessary, even logical to bring death and more death -what mattered, what truly mattered, was the _intention_ , the motives behind his actions. And right then, the Vulcan was murderous.

Eventually, it was over.

He rushed up the narrow staircase Jim had pointed out, fighting bitterly against the clouds growing darker and thicker in his mind, tearing apart the fog with sheer willpower, commanding himself to stay focused - _Stay focused, there is no pain, there is only quiet, stay focused, quiet, only quiet, be quiet, hush, hush, hush, hush!_

“Jim!” he called into the chip as he set foot on a wide terrace. “Captain, can you beam us up?” Carefully, he stepped towards the edge, but was forced to retreat as soon as he glanced down into what could easily be classified as an abyss. _Do not panic_ , Spock chastised himself, _do_ not _panic_.

“Spock, listen…” Kirk’s voice was just the distraction he needed. “Do you trust me?”

The sudden, unexpected question caused Saavik to open her eyes and look up at him in confusion, one eyebrow raised while the other fell in a half-frown. The First Officer took a deep breath. “I do, Jim,” he murmured, “Jim, can you not…?”

“How much do you trust me, Spock?” The human’s tone was dark, promising danger.

Spock considered his answer for point seventy-five seconds. “I trust you completely.”

A hissing wind had risen, carrying foreign scents to his sensitive nose and ruffling his already messy hair.

“Then… I need you to jump, Spock.”

The Vulcan froze. “Jump?” Repetition was not part of his habits, and yet. Had he said _jump_? Surely he had not heard correctly?

“I need you to jump across the shield and into the void.” Kirk sighed heavily: “I promise we will catch you; I wouldn’t let you fall, not to save my own life, but you must trust me.”

“…Jump?”

“Run to the edge and jump at least a meter high.” Another pause, then the Captain added: “I know I’m asking a lot of you, Spock. Believe me, we’ve tried to think of an alternative… But it’s the only way. Trust me.”

_Jump_ … He couldn’t -he couldn’t _jump_. Into the void. He was going to die -he was going to fall -just like his mother -his mother, who had stood at the very brink of the precipice - _why_ had he not pulled her away?

But he certainly could not jump _now_ -could not risk the life of the child -could not even consider the idea -it was illogical -foolish -a gamble he was not willing to take -he could not, he would not, never, never -he was afraid.

_Afraid_.

“Please, Spock. Trust me.”

_No, I cannot, I will not, how can I, why do you ask such a thing of me-_

_Dakh pthak. Nam-tor ri ret na'fan-kitok fa tu dakh pthak. (Cast out fear. There is no room for anything else until you cast out fear.)_

The Vulcan closed his eyes. He heaved a deep breath, willing his body to relax, his mind to fall silent.

“Spock, you need to jump, now! Trust me!”

And Spock wrapped both arms tightly around Saavik’s tiny frame, gritted his teeth, broke into a run, and then… he jumped.

There was the wind, howling into his pointed ears.

There was the void, pulling at him, surrounding him.

There was his heart, beating impossibly fast, wanting to escape.

There was the fear, a soul-consuming fear, fear that he had made a mistake, that she would die for his fault…

But there was trust -he had placed his life in Jim’s hands and he trusted, he trusted him with all that he was, and the fear subsided, because Jim… Jim would find a way.

Spock’s eyes opened wide and he stared down into emptiness.

* * *

 

When he fell, it didn’t hurt. He lay unmoving, breathing harshly through parted lips, looking up at the sharp white lights littering the ceiling of transporters room - _the Enterprise_. He was home. Saavik slipped out of his loosening grasp, got up.

“ _Hello, there, kiddo!_ ” Kirk greeted amiably, in a slightly butchered Vulcan -both the pronunciation and the vocabulary were flawless, but he added such emphasis, such feeling to the language that he made it almost unrecognisable. “ _You can walk? Great! Would you be so kind as to follow Nurse Chapel to sickbay? We’ll be there as soon as possible!_ ”

Spock heard her leave, falling into step behind the Nurse, and knew it was time to rise; he pressed the palms of his hands flat on the platform and pushed. His arms shook, but he did get up successfully, turning to see Jim smile at him, that bright, warm smile that made every sacrifice worth the while. The human rushed by his side, offering him much-needed support. “Bones is waiting eagerly for you,” he informed him, walking him towards the turbolift, where they found Saavik and Chapel. The woman shot the Captain an apologetic look: “She insisted on waiting for you.”

Kirk smiled at the fragile Vulcan girl, offering her the _ta’al_ even as he drew an arm around Spock’s waist -his second in command was falling into a trance right there, sagging against him, forehead pressed into his shoulder, eyes closed and heartbeat slowing.

“He is so strong,” Saavik said, in a very accented Standard, “I’ve never seen one resist the drug this long…”

“Is he in danger?” Jim asked, as the turbolift came to a halt, opened its sliding doors.

“No, I don’t think so. It… It will wear off sooner or later…”

 

* * *

 

 

As he awoke, drifting slowly into consciousness, Spock became gradually aware of the presence of others watching him; he was pleased to note that, though confused, his mind appeared to be perfectly functional. Thus he lowered his shields just so, probing cautiously around in a very superficial search for potentially dangerous intentions. Coming across none, he opened his eyes to realise he was in a bed in sickbay. The previous events crowded his brain at once, and he was suddenly up into a sitting position, his attempt at rising to his feet aborted upon finding himself face to face with his Captain, so close in fact their noses almost touched; blue eyes bore into his before the human blushed red -an alien colour that would never cease to amaze him- and jumped back with a start. Standing next to him, Saavik raised an eyebrow.

“Hey, Spock, uhm, you alright?” Jim chuckled nervously, offering him a lopsided smile, and shook his head to calm down some. “You’ve been out cold for fifteen hours.”

“Indeed,” Spock replied, turning to examine the child who was staring at him with a strange worshiping look: “I see you are considerably better. I am pleased, _ko-kan_.”

She nodded. Her face had gained a little colour and the scars were gone, erased completely from her fragile skin. “Thank you,” she whispered.

Jim reached out to press his palm into her still-bony shoulder, grinning at her with unmistakable affection. “Say, Saavik. Could you go and tell the doctor my favourite Vulcan finally woke up?”

Saavik quirked one corner of her mouth upwards, then said cheekily: “Of course, Captain Kirk. I _do_ understand that you need to speak with Spock- _an_ alone.”

Kirk sent her a playful death glare, and lightly punched Spock’s now healed arm: “Aren’t you proud, Spock? She has your sass!”

“Must I remind you, Jim, that there is no such thing as a sassy Vulcan?” The second in command settled more comfortably on the bed, straightening his back and drawing in a deep breath: “Please, I would know what has transpired during my trance.”

The human sobered immediately, frowned, heaved a sigh: “Well, that darned place is no more.” A metallic glint flashed in his eyes as he continued: “Those scientists - _butchers_ \- were non-telepathic creatures making ghastly experiments on telepathy without even having _a clue_ as to what they were dealing with.”

“Is that so?” The Vulcan hissed softly, his anger skilfully hidden behind layers of indifference now that his mind was free from the drug. Yet there was more to it than simple fury -the despair, the horror he had seen, all those children…

Jim raised one hand and very gingerly brushed his knuckles across his forehead, trailing a burning touch on his much cooler skin; Spock’s eyes widened infinitesimally in surprise: he recognised the Vulcan gesture of friendship and support, of course, he knew it well, and he had never expected the Captain to -it was ancient, and it was rare even on his birth planet. He himself had once taught it to Nyota, though. _Ah. Nyota_.

“I should have _never_ agreed to let you go alone.” Kirk murmured, “I’m supposed to be the Captain. I’m supposed to take care of my crew.”

“We are all aware of the risks, Jim. You are not to blame.”

He clapped his hands in response: “Anyway! We beamed down as soon as Bones had you at his mercy.” He snickered, but his features stayed stiff, expression tense. “Turns out they had those children since a few hours before, you know, _Vulcan_.” He crossed his arms, reigning his emotions in, “There was no way we could have guessed those kids had been abducted and had not simply died in the tragedy.”

Spock nodded: “I suspected as much.”

“Saavik’s a whole different thing, though. She was born there -some kind of twisted genetic experiment of theirs…” He paused, probably to give his friend a few moments to compose himself, then he went on: “She’s a miracle, frankly. I mean, they taught her _all she knows_ and still she’s a better Vulcan -a better person- than many.”

“I, too, am significantly impressed by her behaviour.” Spock pressed the tips of his fingers together, pondering what to ask next.

“I’ve talked to your father,” Jim put in carelessly, winking, “He says he’s absolutely _thrilled_ to adopt our little Saavik!” 

Spock blinked, absorbing the information. “Although I doubt intensely that _thrilled_ was the word he used, I have to say I am pleasantly surprised by my father’s choice,” he approved. “May I leave sickbay now?”

“Oh, you _must_ ,” Jim’s eyes sparkled, and a huge smile made its way on his face, bringing dimples to his cheeks; Spock waited patiently for him to elaborate. “We found another thirteen children alive back there. They’re here, and we are all… at a loss. We kinda need… a Vulcan… you. We need you to keep them busy and distracted -never thought I’d see one of you guys be so restless, but we can hardly blame them, can we?” He was babbling now, “Look, I’m sorry to demote you to babysitter, but Bones said you do it well enough with me so you might as well -you know- make yourself useful for a change…”

“Thirteen children are still alive and surviving?” Spock repeated, already walking towards the door, “Do show me where they are.”

* * *

 

The crew had succeeded in creating a warm, suitable environment for the rescued children by turning observation Deck III into some sort of recreation room complete with tiny beds and piles of blankets littering the floor; the children huddled together in the middle of the space, talking softly to one another and glancing around with evident suspicion. As soon as they saw Spock, they jumped up and surrounded him, seeking comfort from the admittedly alien location they were in. He kneeled between them, searching their tiny, pale faces for those tell-tale signs that betrayed their mental instability. Saavik was the only one who sat placidly by his side, while the others stood, still trapped in a fight-or-flight demeanour.

“It is fortunate you are among us,” the First Officer said gently, “New Vulcan awaits you: you are our future, and our hope.”

Jim smiled softly, watching as the children relaxed little by little, nestling into the thick blankets shielding them from the cold of the floor; he noticed they had formed a circle, and were all looking up at Spock expectantly. “I am not a qualified healer,” he murmured, “But let me try and heal your minds, _kanlar_.”

He offered them his hands -and Kirk wondered at the power held in Vulcan hands, the strongest vehicle for their magnificent telepathy. He took a step to leave, thinking that maybe his presence would prove detrimental for whatever was about to happen, but his second in command turned his head a millimetre or so towards him, not opening his eyes, simply whispering: “You may stay and watch, though there is not much to see. I will attempt to restore the _k’war’ma’khon_ , the network of bonds, which broke four years and three months ago.”

Then he withdrew completely inside himself; he and the children had formed a chain, and the human swore he could almost _hear_ the buzz of their mingling consciousness, the touching of soft, silky threads (what he imagined bonds to be like), the hum of relief at being, after such a long time spent in loneliness, one.

Jim settled on the floor, feeling suddenly very honoured: Vulcan healing practices, especially those linked to the mind, were more than simply _private_ -they were ancient secrets kept as if the life of the universe depended on it, traditions no otherworlder was ever to know and discover. No information could be found on the matter, even when it was most needed; in fact, not even Starfleet doctors had enough knowledge to treat Vulcan telepathy, as if potential death was a more logical choice than revealing anything about their _irak-nahan_. 

And yet, Spock had let him in on the secret.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For my parting notes: Saavik totally knows. And with ‘knows’ I mean she saw Spock and Kirk once and became Spirk fan n.1. And since I love her A LOT, we’ll be seeing more of her in the future! I’ll have her grow up to became the kick-ass, awesome Saavik we see in The Wrath of Kahn and The Search for Spock! ^_^  
> Next chapter will be Water, as in, water in the desert, and oasis, and t’hy’la.
> 
> LLAP!


	5. Water

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> If Kirk hadn’t been out cold and in danger of losing his life, he probably wouldn’t have dared to touch his mind -he certainly wouldn’t have dared. The situation being what it was, Spock felt he had no choice but to take that dangerous gamble.   
> His fingers slid over the human’s face, falling into position almost spontaneously, as if driven by a greater force. “My mind to your mind…”  
> My thoughts to your thoughts.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I made it! This is the first t’hy’la chapter of the series! And also the last one from Spock’s POV for a while (at least up to number 8).   
> So, what to expect: melding, a little Spock issues, a flashback with great Amanda, and some Nyota. Personally, I think she’s the human Spock feels more comfortable talking to, and so he will go to her asking for advice and stuff; their friendship in tos was so awesome, so gentle and spontaneous -I want that for aos too! 
> 
> Please enjoy!

**_5_ **

**_Water_ **

 

 

Crystalline droplets slithered slowly over dark rock, bleeding from the fallen walls of an ancient cave. They strongly smelled of lead, though they were perfectly transparent, alluring as they shone dimly, reflecting the lights coming off the tricorders. They slipped unhurriedly to the uneven floor, gathering here and there in small, mirror-like pools that would have been magnificent had it not been for the atmosphere of pure tension that made the air itself flinch.

The cave was silent but for the laboured breaths of three people -one unconscious human, one very agitated human, one perfectly collected Vulcan. They were huddled uncomfortably on the opposite side, the one nearest to what had once been the entrance and had now become an unescapable pile of boulders.

“And you are absolutely positive I can’t use the water?” McCoy whispered, somehow managing to sound growly and snappy even if his voice was really just a breath. Spock wondered briefly at this peculiarity, eyes never leaving his Captain’s face, and answered curtly: “Not unless you wish to cause him further damage.”

The Vulcan shifted slightly, adjusting his position to where he was forcibly holding Jim still, the human’s back to his chest, his golden head upturned and abandoned against his shoulder, fingers twitching around the dirty blue fabric covering Spock’s forearms. Unheeding of the steady trail of blood flowing from a deep cut on his forehead he’d gotten protecting his friends from the ruin, the Commanding Officer reached out a hand to lightly touch the gaping wound adorning Kirk’s upper thigh, but the doctor batted it away sharply: “And what the hell do you think you’re doing?” he hissed.

“Assessing the damage,” the half-breed told him slowly, as if he wasn’t sure the CMO would understand him should he speak faster.

“Oh, yeah? And do you have a medical license no one’s ever heard about?” Leonard’s dark blue eyes bore into the Vulcan’s face, in a burning stare that would have made anyone else recoil or at the very least flinch; Spock held it firmly, unblinkingly, refusing to move his hand further back but respecting the doctor enough not to disobey him. “Didn’t think so,” McCoy muttered, examining the reddish skin around the wound through the touch of gentle fingertips, “No touching my patient, is that clear?” 

“Affirmative,” he said coldly, finally returning his hand to Jim’s overheated forehead. “He is in deep pain,” he added, shivering minutely under the onslaught of fear, hurt, confusion he could easily pick up from his sweating skin. “Is there anything…”

“What do you think I’m trying to do? I’m not fresh off the boat. Now let’s get the show going.” Leonard had withdrawn his fingers and was now removing his shirt. “How long till we can beam back?”

“The ion storm will be over in approximately 37.459 minutes,” Spock answered promptly, ignoring the absurdity of human phrases. “Is that too long a time? We do not, after all, know what it was the natives hit him with.”

If he had been unsuccessful in keeping the worry completely out of his tone, McCoy kindly refrained from pointing it out; he shrugged, offering the Vulcan his discarded shirt: “Tear it to stripes. I want to bandage the wound and make a tourniquet; the poison -or whatever- is not lethal, according to the tricorder, but I won’t push my luck.”

For a while, they worked quietly. The silence was, in fact, broken only by Kirk’s muffled groans and the dripping sound of falling water. Spock’s fingers shook whenever they came into contact with Jim’s skin -the human was now projecting waves of so strong a pain the Vulcan feared it would render him crazy. “Doctor, I…” he began to say, then stopped, started again: “His suffering is intensifying. We have 29.054 minutes left -I do not think he can take this much.”

McCoy raised his head, blinking. “His pulse is too fast,” he stated, “And his brainwaves are in a frenzy. But we can’t leave, and even if we could, moving _him_ is out of the question.” He sighed softly, squeezing his friend’s twitching hand. “There’s nothing we can do. Believe me, I’m not a big fan of waiting patiently, but I know my limits. Now turn your head, let me see if I can treat your wound.”

For all his illogic, Leonard was maybe the most professional human Spock had ever met. He allowed him to touch his face, submitting to his medical examination even if the small, emotional part of him that remembered all too well his childhood spent being Vulcan’s most famous guinea pig was begging him to pull away, to assert his claim that he was _not_ an experiment. Then Jim let out what was clearly a harsh scream of despair, chapped lips open and gasping, chest heaving, blue eyes unseeing as they fixed upon the Science Officer.

Spock distanced himself from the doctor, laying both hands on the human’s face, pushing away his burning emotions as he tried his best to replace them with a gentle, comforting calm. “I would share his pain,” he breathed, leaning down so his forehead touched Kirk’s, “I would share his pain. Doctor, allow me to meld with him. Allow me to…”

“Out of the question.” McCoy said brusquely, growing, if possible, even more serious than he’d been before. “The last thing I need here is a Vulcan going batty.”

“I will not _go batty_ ,” Spock protested, “I am perfectly capable of maintaining control over a base feeling such as pain. You have admitted you have done all you can -I have not. It is my duty as First Officer and friend to ensure…”

“The writing’s on the wall for this one, Spock, you must see reason. It’s too dangerous to meld with a drugged mind.” Leonard grimaced: “I can’t risk losing you both.”

“Doctor. He will _not_ survive the pain,” The Vulcan spoke through clenched teeth, and his dark eyes held a hint of that ancient fire which fuelled his strength and pride. “You once told me yourself that fear is what keeps us alive; I cannot agree with you completely: I do not and will not fear death. But I fear for Jim.” The Captain was kicking with his uninjured leg, doing his best to escape from whatever ghosts were chasing him, and an upsurge of naked desolation crashed against Spock’s shields as he gently -almost tenderly- caressed the human’s temple, sending him a new, calming wave of positive feelings, his belief that he could make it, he will make it, he was not alone… “I refuse to leave him to deal with this on his own, doctor.” Jim’s breathing was shallow, laboured, he was losing himself… _No! Do not!_ “I am afraid, Leonard. Very much so,” That confession came at a very high price for the Vulcan who rarely admitted to having any kind of feeling, and it was final and true and transparent. “And I shall meld with Jim regardless of your opinion.”

The Medical Officer shook his head tiredly: “Damn stubborn elf,” he muttered, then waved a hand: “Proceed.”

“I thank thee, doctor.”

 

* * *

 

The world was an endless pool of white blankness. Everything was so vague, so impersonal, Jim would have doubted his own existence had it not been for the searing pain that cursed through him, setting his whole being aflame. He was sure his eyes were open but found there was nothing to see, nothing but the emptiness surrounding him; in his veins, it was as if freezing water and boiling fire were battling to the death to claim his life as the prize -and he resisted them both, stubbornly he resisted their startling assaults, their scorching tentacles trying to reach his mind.

He was fighting.

Why was he fighting? There _had_ to be a reason. There _had_ to be something he was fighting _for_. It couldn’t be just self-preservation instinct. He knew how that worked -knew the mindless actions it spurred, knew the quiet hopelessness it brought, knew the mantra of _survive, survive, survive_ it created. No, Jim had a purpose, a goal, a duty… He couldn’t remember what it was.

He looked down to where his hands should have been, but all he saw were vague wisps of opaque smoke staining the snowy clarity of the place -yes, he would call it place, for lack of a better definition. Another wave of pain engulfed him and he distantly realised his back was arching, his fingers were digging into living flesh that felt too cool to be human, and there were hands touching him, one cradling his face with infinite gentleness, a second one holding him still with unrelenting strength. He fought them both, wishing to flee from the agony he was drowning in.

_Too much too much too much too much damn it damn it I can’t can’t can’t it hurts it hurts!_

Again he pushed desperately against the binds keeping him in place, but he could have been trying to move a mountain for all the good it did him. His throat felt raw, dry, he was thirsty, he was _parched_ , and there was no water, no water, no water…

No water meant no food.

No food meant… It meant death. It meant the end of everything -it was a pain far worse than the physical -mental?- one he was currently feeling. Images of a barren wasteland, of bony children, of pleading hands joined together, of decaying bodies left to rot flashed through his mind, filling him with a horror that left him frozen. Panic washed over him, as heavy as it had been the first time he’d heard those words _There is no more food; the unworthy must die_.

 _Am I fighting to protect the unworthy?_ He wondered, desperate for understanding, _Is it for them that I endure this pain?_

 _But they are long gone_ , his mind told him, _they are lost. You couldn’t save them._

The agony did not subside, would not subside, even when he declared his surrender. The children, his children, Tarsus IV children, were dead. There was nothing to defend, nothing worth keeping safe, there were only him and the blankness and the agony and the distant sound of someone else’s heartbeat, the brief touch of someone else’s consciousness…

_Where am I?_

_What is this place?_

_What are these voices?_

He could sense, more than hear, the voices caressing him; they were familiar voices, yet he couldn’t place them, couldn’t recognise them… He felt he was not alone; the burning flames of the fire devouring him waned for a fleeting moment, lost to a surge of strength that was not his, a burst of emotion so alien, yet so known, _You will make it, you must make it, I am here!_

And Jim wondered at the beauty of that fierce whisper, at how trusting, how sure it sounded -it had breached the walls of white blinding him, like an arrow bringing a sliver of reality into a dream…

He found he must name that voice, that voice reaching for him through the depths of his torture. He could not. The pain was too distracting. He was slowly fading away, losing himself in the agony that consumed both his body and his mind, his being, his soul. He could give up… he could let that thin thread of stubbornness and sheer will go and simply be no more, he could _die_ …

Everything that he was, everything that he had ever been arose then, rejecting the idea vehemently. _Hells, no! No, no, no!_

And at that same moment, the voice pierced through him again: _No! Do not!_ He became aware of the hands sliding across his face -his temple- grabbing him, begging him to stay -it was a plea and an order, urgent and unforgiving. _Jim! Jim, my friend, Jim!_

Once more, he called upon that raw courage that had saved him more times than he cared to remember and bracing himself he turned face first towards the pain he’d been desperately trying to flee from. _I’ll fight until my dying breath!_

 

* * *

 

 

It had been since he had formed the mating bond with T’Pring that Spock hadn’t performed a meld; he had been a child then, a seven-year-old child who had looked at his new life companion with the hope to find in her some form of understanding, of acceptance, someone who would know him for who he was and appreciate the dualities he represented. His attempts at contact had been met with harsh refusals: she had shielded from him, let the bond wither day by day, claiming his disorganised half-human mind proved distracting for her thoughts, claiming he was too emotional, too unstable to be the mate she desired and deserved. When she had died, he had barely felt it amongst the endless number of lost connections, but she had left a permanent mark in his mind -the image of a burning rejection, the cruel awareness of his own diversity, of his being _not appropriate_.

And he wouldn’t meld anymore after T’Pring, not even with his mother, not even with Nyota. It was a risk he was unwilling to take, that of allowing those he cared about into the depths of his being to show them just how misfit he was.

If Kirk hadn’t been out cold and in danger of losing his life, he probably wouldn’t have dared to touch his mind -he _certainly_ wouldn’t have dared. The situation being what it was, Spock felt he had no choice but to take that dangerous gamble.

His fingers slid over the human’s face, falling into position almost spontaneously, as if driven by a greater force. “My mind to your mind…”

 _My thoughts to your thoughts_.

His eyes closed and he rested his forehead on Jim’s, breathing into his ragged breath. His sense of self-awareness faded rapidly as he let himself be swallowed by the depths of Kirk’s magnificent consciousness.

He had been expecting pain, a scorching pain to set his soul aflame and wage war to his carefully kept controls; he had been expecting resistance, the instinctual resistance that came from a hurting being, one to push him away, to recoil from him; he had been expecting a surge of fear and a flare of anger or at least some form of shielding; he had been expecting a fight.

What he had not even considered for the briefest of seconds was the amazing warmth that _poured_ from the human’s vivid consciousness, and he was powerless against that siren call luring him deeper. It was gentle at first, a fleeting touch, a glimpse of sunlight, delicate and ephemeral, then mental fingers were suddenly reaching for him, pulling him closer, reacting to his presence in the strangest of ways: welcoming him, rather than denying him access.

And Spock realised abruptly that his mind -so battered and lonely and cold- was thirsting, burning with the fire of unexpected need, wanting that warmth - _Jim’s_ warmth- to replace the scorching flames. He had to have more, had to know him, and he found himself desiring to be equally bare, equally known… It was so exhilarating.

It was so _right_.

Something buried and long forgotten burst to life at that point, rising from behind its mantle of emotionless logic, recognising on an instinctual level the perfection of such a contact, the rich taste of golden honey enveloping him, saving him from his own, self-imposed seclusion.

His mind sang and rejoiced, alight after so long a time spent grieving. Water in the desert, that was what he’d found, the safest of all places, the sweetest of all sanctuaries, the one and only _home_.

 _You are- Jim… you are… Jim, my friend, Jim, my brother, Jim, my soulmate, Jim, you are -t’hy’la, t’hy’la, t’hy’la, t’hy’la_. It was a prayer, full of wonder and amazement and adoration. _T’hy’la, t’hy’la, my t’hy’la, my haven, I cherish thee, I shall cherish thee always, I have been searching for thee, oh, Jim, it is you, t’hy’la, I had wished for it to be you…_

 

* * *

 

 

As he pads softly through the fresh green grass of the garden, Spock clutches the heavy ancient book to his chest, inhaling the scent of dusty paper as it mixes with the wild perfumes of his mother’s numerous plants. She sits on a stone bench and he admires her from afar, taking in her calm, collected stance, the inviting folds her silken scarf weaves around her dress, the fall of her mahogany hair. She looks up suddenly, and her face lights up as soon as she sees him: “Spock. Come here, sweetheart.”

He watches her gentle smile with fascination, climbing gracefully next to her as she takes the book from him to place it in her lap. The human slides her arm around the small shoulders of her five-year-old son, smoothing his fringe affectionately. “Were you looking for me, dear?”

The child nods, submitting to her stroking good-naturedly, and reaches for the volume, sifting through the pages quickly; it is written in ancient Vulcan. “I have encountered a word that is unclear to me,” he says, bowing his head in shame for half a second but raising his chin up again almost immediately, before she can attempt to comfort him. “I wish for you to explain it to me,” he adds, “If it is acceptable to you.”

“But of course, baby. I’ll try. Just tell me what it is,” Amanda leans in to press a tender kiss on his cheek, chuckling almost silently when the little half-Vulcan blinks repeatedly, obviously flustered, and clears his throat to hide his embarrassment.

“The word is _t’hy’la_ , Mother.” His huge chocolate eyes widen as he gazes into his mother’s face expectantly.

She smiles again, examining the beautifully interlaced letters trace intricate patterns on the page. He waits patiently for her to organise her thoughts, knowing an answer is soon to come. “ _T’hy’la_ is… the most cherished Vulcan bond,” the woman finally explains, cocking her head to the side subconsciously, “Your father told me about it once; it is considered to be little more than a legend, but it doesn’t mean it is any less true for that.”

“What are the peculiarities of this bond?” he wonders, his innate curiosity more than roused.

“It used to be a bond between warriors -two people who complemented each other in ways we can only imagine; the touch of two minds that were made for each other, a perfect fit.” Her chiming laugh fills the garden. “It’s pretty deep and romantic to be Vulcan, right?” she teases gently, “No wonder they don’t really teach it at school. When I asked Sarek for a translation in Standard he said there is none, but we can say that those who are _t’hy’la_ to each other are friends, brothers and lovers all at the same time. Does that answer your question?”

“It is a most satisfactory explanation, Mother. I thank thee.” Spock gives her a fleeting look, “And you say it is a legend?”

Amanda brushes her fingers through his velvet hair. “It’s something from the past; long before Surak.” She grasps his little hand, sending him a wave of fierce love before pulling him forcibly into a very human embrace. He bears with it. “A _t’hy’la_ is someone who will understand you and _stand_ with you no matter what.”

The child’s slanted eyebrows furrow in concentration, lips pressed together as he contemplates this new piece of information. The woman fights back one more fit of laughter. Her son is too adorable to be allowed. “That would be… most agreeable.” And there is no questioning the barely hidden undercurrent of longing in his voice.

Another kiss falls just above his left eye. “Once upon a time Vulcans used to go on special quests looking for their _t’hy’la_. Perhaps you’ll find your _t’hy’la_ too, someday.”

“Wishful thinking is illogical, Mother,” he complains. But he lets her hold him tight against her chest anyway, and basks in the safety of her tender warmth.

 

* * *

 

 

 _Wishful thinking is illogical_. Spock cut his mental monologue short, because he was on duty and because no matter what he might have felt or wanted, Jim was not his to claim and would likely never be. He delved deeper in the human’s mind, searching for the source of his pain so he could suffocate it.

 _Jim…_ He knew well just how private his Captain was, thus he avoided his thoughts and memories with care, ignoring the needs of his starved brain - _form a bond, tel-tor, I must, I must, I require…_

Finally, he found the mental image where Kirk’s consciousness was held captive by the alien poison cursing through his veins, and he insinuated himself inside, breaking apart the frozen whiteness to reach for his friend. The wave of anguish and hurt that swamped him was almost too much to bear, but he fought it vehemently, sharpening his controls, focusing entirely on relieving the human’s suffering.

For a few, scattered seconds the Vulcan burned fiercely, panted softly as his fingers twitched over Jim’s meld points, shivered in response to the tumbling combination of emotions and pain he was trying to navigate; he sought relief in the very mind that was the source of his distress -a _t’hy’la_ ’s mind would quench both the scorching fire and his desperate thirsting…

Spock hissed when he found himself having to suppress a rising, dangerous fury that was black as death and ancient as the now-lost deserts of his home planet: he would not -could not- pursue vengeance for his _t’hy’la_ ’s sake, he reminded himself, it was illogical, unnecessary, violent… The only thing that mattered was Jim’s safety. And he was hurting so badly. With infinite tenderness, he brought his consciousness to brush more firmly against Kirk’s, offering comfort, pulling him back towards reality.

 _You need to rest_ , he murmured, _let go. It is over._

Distant awareness, vague recognition, the soft whisper of his name, then Spock surrounded the pain with heavy shields and willed the entrancing human mind to sleep.

 

* * *

 

It had been one hour, fifteen minutes and seven seconds since they’d made it back to the ship; Spock’s seemingly endless shift was finally over, and his mind was in turmoil. He walked silently across the corridors of the Enterprise, back straight, pacing as fast as he could without actually looking as if he was in a hurry. The sliding doors to Rec Room 3 opened at his command, and he found Nyota listening to a Betazoid song as she effortlessly transcribed the lyrics on her padd; he watched her work for a while, searching his brain for a suitable way to alert her of his presence without startling her or making it seem as if he had been spying on her. He cleared his throat lightly and settled for: “Your dedication to alien languages is admirable.”

To Spock’s displeasure, the woman did start a little; she turned the music off, tilted her head back to smile at him, and gestured gracefully with her long fingers for him to sit by her side. “Hey, hello, Spock, I thought you’d be in sickbay? How’s Kirk?”

“He is sound asleep and will recover,” the Vulcan settled stiffly on a chair, folding his own pale hands in his lap. “To answer your first question, I believe I will employ a very fitting human phrase: _the doctor kicked me out_.”

His attempt at humour did not pass unnoticed: Uhura chuckled lively, nodding. “Of course he did.”

A few minutes of silence passed as she waited for him to speak his mind, then eventually the Science Officer said: “I hope you will consider teaching when the time comes.” He was stalling, and he was very much aware of it.

Both her eyebrows came up in surprise, and her dark eyes bore into his: “Are you asking me to take your chair away from you?” It was clearly meant as a joke, but he replied anyway: “It is simply a matter of recognising where true ability lays.” He gave an almost shrug, tilting up the corners of his mouth infinitesimally. “You are far superior than I am.”

Nyota laughed again at his words: “That’s why I’m having fun in comms and you get to play in the labs.”

“Indeed.”

After a few moments when she once again waited for the Vulcan to speak, she prompted gently: “Are you looking for something? Did you need to use the equipment?”

He shook his head minutely, “I wish to speak to you.”

She turned in her chair so she was facing him, crossed her legs and leaned towards him: “Something troubles you, doesn’t it? Why don’t you try talking to Jim about it?”

Spock paled at the thought. “That I simply cannot do.”

Uhura frowned deeply at his reluctance. “You mean _he’s_ the problem. What did he say this time? I’m sure he really didn’t want to…”

He interrupted her immediately, keeping his eyes glued to his lap, his head slightly bowed: “You misunderstand; I wish to discuss a very delicate matter concerning Jim, but he is not at fault, not at all,” He paused for a heartbeat: “Would now be an appropriate time? If it is not inconvenient to you?”

Nyota’s expression warmed noticeably, and she reached out to brush her fingers on his shoulder in a soothing motion: “Of course, sweetheart. You know you don’t have to worry about asking for help.”

Spock raised an eyebrow at her use of the endearment, but he let it slide. “I melded with Jim,” he confessed curtly.

She blinked several times, stunned. She had known him for years, and she’d always seen him shy away from mental contact as if it burned; he was afraid of so intimate a connection, and she thought she even understood why: it was the same reason why she had ended their relationship. Because it drove him crazy with his conviction that he had to be perfect at all costs, no matter how impossible it sounded, no matter what he had to sacrifice, he had to be perfect _least he risked losing everything_. “…And? How did it go? Did he…”

He took a slow, steadying breath, and his eyes fluttered closed as he remembered the touch of Jim’s mind… “I realised something, something I have probably known for a long time.” A shiver passed along his spine, and he hoped she didn’t notice. “We are… _t’hy’la_.”

Nyota clapped her hands, then, genuinely pleased by the news. “But that’s wonderful, Spock! I’m so thrilled to hear…” Her voice drifted lower until she fell silent, stretching her arm so she could press a finger under his chin and tilt it upwards, the better to see his bereft expression. “Why do I get the feeling you don’t think it’s a good thing like you obviously should?”

He pulled away from her touch, hiding his face from her, and struggled to offer her an explanation: “I… cannot… he is…” He spoke softly: “Not mine.”

Uhura sighed at seeing just how resigned he already was. “What do you need me for?” she wondered, as he appeared to have already made up his mind.

“I am uncertain as to how I should behave,” Spock admitted, “Perhaps you could help me.”

The Lieutenant bit her lip, then said sharply: “Why don’t you just tell him the truth?”

“Out of the question.” The Vulcan’s face went cold as ice, unfeeling. “He is not interested.”

“You don’t know that, Spock,” she objected, dangling her leg a little; as the conversation had progressed, Spock had grown more and more still, while the human kept fidgeting here and there, and it highlighted the differences between them.

“It is highly unlikely,” he insisted. “And even in the event that he was willing, I could not allow a meld.” He seemed to recoil from the very thought.

“Why? You didn’t like it? Did it hurt?”

Spock’s eyes went soft, shining lightly with the smallest hint of longing. “It was… perfect,” he murmured, “Such a connection I had never experienced. Jim’s mind called to mine like it was water in the desert, the only home I will ever have, warm and bright as starlight, and…” He closed his mouth abruptly, pressing his lips into a tight line.

“Then what’s the problem?” Nyota asked gently, touched and a little worried by that blatant display of emotion.

“I _cannot_ allow him into my mind, it is…” His forehead creased. “It is _riolozhikaik_.” _Illogical_.

She sighed again. “You’re a fool, you know that, don’t you?” Before he could answer, she got up, walked around his chair, and placed both hands on his shoulders, waiting until he relaxed enough to lean his head back against her. Then she very lightly caressed his dark velvety hair: “You could be so happy if you had a little more faith in yourself.” When he did not comment, she surrendered in front of his stubbornness. “If you really don’t want him to know… You simply must not change the way you behave around him. I’m sure you know that. And I’m also sure you know it’s a huge mistake.”

“Perhaps,” he said, noncommittally.

“Why are you here, then?”

“I suppose I simply required someone who would… listen.”

 

* * *

 

 

Jim looked up from the Padd he was examining and smiled at the Vulcan sitting stiffly by his side. Sickbay was a very boring place to be confined in, and he was glad to have company. “It’s shore leave in two weeks,” he said brightly, twirling his stylus between thumb and forefinger. Spock’s eyes followed the motion intently for the fraction of a second before he raised them to meet his. “Indeed,” he whispered, not overly fond of the idea of alerting the doctor of his presence in his realms.

“We get eight days of freedom wherever we like!” Kirk exulted, clapping his friend’s shoulder and gloating privately when he didn’t so much as budge. “Bones will even visit Joanna, I’m so happy for him!”

“I, too, am pleased to hear he will spend some time with his daughter,” the Vulcan approved, taking the Padd from Jim almost absentmindedly. The human grinned, blue eyes flashing in amusement at the unnecessary gesture. “So I know there’s this wonderful planet nearby. It’s very similar to late 20th Century Earth, and I was thinking maybe it’ll be fun to go there.” He shot his executive officer a sideways glance, waiting for his opinion, but Spock had suddenly tensed minutely, face unreadable as he kept staring at him.

“So I rented this house,” he continued, ignoring the Vulcan’s carefully hidden distress, “It’s in the middle of the woods, surrounded by nature, with very little technology to spoil it. Real proper food to eat, too.” He drew in a deep breath, put off by Spock’s reluctance. “There are also stables nearby,” he offered as a last resource.

“I am sure you will enjoy yourself,” the Vulcan said flatly, “Will you invite Yeoman Salinas as well?” He had noticed the young woman was -what was the word?- pining after their Captain, and Jim was not at all oblivious to her attentions.

Kirk outright gaped at him. “Sara Salinas?” he repeated loudly, “Spock, you -you- _obtuse_ …” He burst into a fit of laughter, not caring in the slightest if he sounded chocked and nervous. “I was trying to invite _you_! But of course, if you have better things to do…” He raised an eyebrow, mocking him.

“I do not,” Spock hastened to reply, “I will join you, Jim. May I ask what the weather is like planet-side?”

Jim’s smile was smug and winning: “It should be fine, warm but not too warm. And there’s a lake, too. I could teach you how to swim.” He was positively glowing.

“May I remind you, Jim, that Vulcans do not like water?” the Science Officer pointed out.

“Oh, I know that,” the Captain assured him, waving his hand, “But what about you? Do _you_ like water?”

And Spock’s voice was quiet, almost inaudible when he murmured, after a long pause: “Yes, I do. I do like water, Jim.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There we go, this is finished as well. Hoped you guys liked it! Next one will be Perfection, AKA Spock’s obsession for perfection as told by a very fond and very amused Jim; I think T’Pau will make an appearance and cute Saavik too!
> 
> LLAP! And many XOs


	6. Perfection

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> For a while they were silent; Spock shifted his focus back on their game and Jim let him, giving him space, time to think about what he’d said. He contented himself with watching those beautiful white hands glide across the chessboard, brushing against the pieces with the lightest of touches. Then suddenly the Vulcan’s eyes were on him, a soft, contemplative glance that seemed to be searching for his soul, right into his very core.
> 
> “As a child I was made very aware of my inferiority,” Spock stated calmly, as if he’d been talking about the weather; Jim felt as if he had just passed a test. “My blood and my mind are tainted by human weaknesses and emotions. My existence alone is enough to bring dishonour to my clan.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> First piece from Jim’s POV! Hope I managed him well, I made him so obliviously in luuuv with Spock but I tried to make it also funny and it came out unexpectedly long -as it always happens, to think that originally this was supposed to be a collection of drabbles… Anyway, here we have some prejudices and evil T’Pau (it’s too difficult to write the way she speaks, damn her.)  
> Please enjoy!

**_6_ **

**_Perfection_ **

 

 

They were playing a very unnerving game of hide-and-seek with a Romulan ship. Jim had never been xenophobic (hell, he was _more_ than into aliens) but he was seriously starting to hate those crazy bastards; ever since the tragedy of Vulcan he had had very little patience with the Empire, and now the most irrational part of his brain was suddenly considering full-out war against the fools, who had somehow managed to burn two whole stations to the ground, collecting a total of six hundred thirty-seven victims and no survivors.

Their ship had come and gone unnoticed but for a strange reading they had followed upon finding the mayhem planet-side, and, in spite of the Enterprise’s inferior shielding power, they had engaged the enemy as soon as possible to prevent them from entering their own forbidden side of space. The bird-of-prey must be captured and rendered inoffensive else they proved Starfleet to be a weak opponent.

Even Spock, non-violent, _pacifist_ Spock, had bowed to the logic of the situation and suggested they started a chase. And so now they found themselves at the edge of the neutral zone running on auxiliary power only, all systems shut down pretending to be a dead ship floating into endless darkness.

On the bridge, they barely dared to breathe.

Jim sent a fleeting glance in the Vulcan’s direction. He was kneeling on the floor, entirely focused on the quick repairs he was managing at his station; he worked quietly, with his usual sense of unwavering calm that made him seem perpetually centred, solid rock against the fury of the elements. The human couldn’t help but smile ever-so-slightly at the thought, and he was about to turn when he noticed that something was off with his friend, something he could have easily missed had he not always been fascinated -to borrow the expression- by his hands. They were shaking, almost invisibly so, but they were shaking nonetheless.

Kirk frowned deeply, instantly worried: it was so unlike Spock to move unnecessarily, and he very rarely -which meant never- displayed open signs of weariness. Still, he decided to let it slide, knowing full well how little the Vulcan appreciated it when he was reminded he wasn’t infallible. He had a foolish obsession with being perfect, didn’t he?

He started a bit when he suddenly found that the Executive Officer was standing right behind him. “Captain, I am nearly finished,” he murmured slowly.

Jim seized his chance to examine the alien’s face. Were his cheeks blushing a sickly green or was the human just being paranoid? _Damn it, Jim, focus_ , said a voice in his head that sounded way too much like Bones. _They don’t pay you to fret over your Second_. “Great,” he muttered, “Pleased to know good news still exist on this ship.”

Spock’s eyebrow did that thing, then, when it seemed like it was dying to jump right out of his pale forehead. Kirk roughly translated it with: _Stop being so annoyingly illogical and pay attention, you odd, foolish Captain_. “Well, then, what can I do for you?” he asked.

The Vulcan seemed to be gathering himself, and his dark eyes stormed with raw emotion -the image of conflict- before they hardened to become unfeeling. “I believe we should not annihilate the bird-of-prey after all. I have thought about it, and…” 

“Hah!” came a low rumble from before them, “That’s so typically Vulcan.”

Jim’s eyes narrowed in rage and he noticed Uhura turn sharply towards him; she wore a murderous expression that emphasised her already intimidating appearance, and said, quite clearly: _Shut her up at once or I will_. The Captain got up unhurriedly, careful of being silent, mustering his patience as he moved to stand in front of the ensign occupying Chekov’s usual spot.

The young Russian was currently being watched over by McCoy down in sickbay, because he had caught some nasty form of alien flu. (Kirk privately thought Bones was darkly but deeply satisfied by the fact, as it finally proved at least one of his morbid fears to be true. He would have laughed had he not been missing the boy’s presence so dearly.) In his place was a young, fairly bitter woman whose parents had been among the few human guests who were on Vulcan the day of the tragedy. That was the one and only reason why he had tolerated her evidently racist behaviour up until that moment, but he was firmly intending to put an end to it and reprimand her sternly.

Spock beat him to it, addressing her directly before he could so much as open his mouth to speak. “I would have you explain the motives behind your statement, ensign Walters,” he calmly -if coldly- told her, while returning to his station in order to complete his repairs.

“Permission to speak freely, sir!” she said brazenly, squaring her shoulders. After a brief exchange of focused glances with his friend, the Captain crossed his arms stiffly and gave his assent.

“Very well, sir, then. Have you no heart? They did away with your whole planet and this is the best you will do?” Her eyes shone with the intensity of her barely-suppressed hatred, which had clearly found an outlet in assigning every fault, every vicious regret to the silent Vulcan. He listened on unflinchingly. “You want to spare them? How can this be?”

Something clicked beneath the First Officer’s deft fingers, and Jim was momentarily distracted by a surge of pride and admiration as the screens flicked back to life. Spock moved to work at Uhura’s station, and Kirk smiled at her when she gently offered the scientist a light touch on his shoulder in a friendly, comforting way. It seemed to go by unnoticed, and the half-blood crouched down to examine the broken, slightly-burnt wires sprouting gracelessly from the floor without further ado. “I wish to spare them because it is the logical choice, and…” he began flatly, but the young ensign interrupted him heatedly: “The _logical_ choice? They destroyed _two_ stations and you want them to live! You really don’t care about Vulcan -about your own people! How _could_ you care?”

“That’s enough!” Jim snapped. Uhura had jumped to her feet and looked more than ready to assault the woman, while Sulu had turned towards the ensign, fists clenched, eyes darkened by fury. Only Spock remained still; he had paled in anger, but he was otherwise unaffected: “Your conclusions are wrong, and your logic is flawed,” he stated, voice utterly devoid of any emotion. Kirk took in the renewed shaking of the Vulcan’s hands, and wondered just how much effort he was putting in controlling his reaction. “Laying waste to that Romulan ship will not bring my home planet back, nor will it revive my lost people.”

Jim flopped back down into his chair, absentmindedly examining the readings they were getting from the still-in-hiding bird-of-prey. He was keeping most of his attention focused on his Executive Officer, who wasn’t finished yet; his level tone had attained a weird cadence that was more appropriate for his native language than for plain Standard, and the change highlighted his alien upbringing. The Captain smiled, privately enjoying the sound of that carefully-measured voice. “All life is precious and sacred. Nothing will be accomplished by acting on my -or your- desire for vengeance.” His eyes narrowed as he and Uhura tried to restore communications, and he seemed to shiver, recoiling for a moment from the cold touch of the instruments before he suppressed even that involuntary reaction. Jim frowned, his concern returning full-force, and he suddenly began to consider asking Bones to visit the Vulcan.

“We are not butchers to bring death whenever we please,” Spock hissed at the grimacing woman; she appeared to be conflicted for a second, but then she burst out: “We can when it’s deserved!”

“We cannot.” His eyes were hard, serious. “We are not gods, it is not our place to judge, not our place to punish by taking life. We are civilised, and we are explorers.”

_God, he’s so amazing. Can’t believe he just said that._

“But if…”

“That would be all, ensign Walters.” The Vulcan finally lost his patience and cut her short; he ducked his head and went back to concentrating completely on his work. Silence fell once more on the bridge, and Jim took advantage of the small pause to give a quick call to Scotty, who was applying some possibly illegal enhancements to the engines while simultaneously searching for a way to break the other ship’s shields without being noticed. _“Aye sir, working on it, should nah take much longer, it’s a wee change after all -get_ down _!”_

They waited.

Jim continued his half-distracted observation of the Vulcan’s graceful moving, realising there were flaws in his patterns that hadn’t been there the day before -he stopped a good four times for no apparent reason, closing his eyes as if to collect himself; he took, every now and then, deep, quiet breaths that were almost sighs; his cheeks did not, even for a moment, lose their greenish hue, as if his temperature had risen; light tremors occasionally slid down his spine and shook his white hands. Nobody else noticed, but then again, the human thought wryly, nobody else was quite as obsessed with his First Officer as he was. And after all, his performance was still well above what was generally considered _average_ , even if it seemed to elude those levels of perfection it usually reached.

_What has gotten into him? He can’t have caught Pavel’s flu, can he?_

But it was an absolutely valid hypothesis: the Vulcan had spent a considerable amount of time in sickbay visiting the Russian navigator and keeping him company. (Kirk had been long convinced the two were kindred spirits; they were both geniuses, both found solace and security in the unyielding logic of Mathematics, and both were inherently sweet, kind people right to their very core. They went along effortlessly.) Plus, the Captain might just have encouraged those visits because it was definitely _fun_ to listen to McCoy and Spock when they bickered over the most unnecessary things.

He very nearly jumped out of his skin when suddenly a shrill alarm sounded. Spock’s hand had eventually slipped -it was, all in all, predictable, given his state- and he had pressed the wrong button.

The Vulcan turned abruptly towards him, freezing there with his back twisted and his legs still crossed in the opposite direction, lips slightly parted in shock and eyes wide; and what Jim saw in those tea-coloured eyes… he swallowed hard: his First Officer (he who had, on countless occasions, proved he feared nothing) was terrified, truly, deeply terrified, even if he had already switched the alarm off, even if it really wasn’t that big of a deal… Spock was genuinely frightened, as if that mistake of his was irredeemable, as if it was something that would cost him his job, or at the very least his position as second in Command. As if Jim would think any less of him because of it.

“Shields up, Mister Spock, all ready to fire, let them know we mean business,” he calmly ordered, pretending nothing unusual had happened; luckily the rest of the crew chose to follow his lead, with the obvious exception of ensign Walters, who muttered “Trying to get us killed, the pacifist,” under her breath. Sulu elbowed her harshly in the ribs and hissed at her to shut her mouth up.

In the end, they managed to catch the ship alright. Spock and Scotty pulled a totally awesome trick with which they succeeded in rendering completely useless the engines of the bird-of-prey, and then it was up to Kirk to prevent the Romulans from committing mass suicide upon finding themselves trapped. Without too many compliments, they dumped their prisoners at the nearest still-intact Starfleet base, where the Captain left recordings of his personal and official logs for their trial; the flagship left as soon as possible -they were there and gone in little more than an hour- for the encounter with the rogue Romulans had severely delayed them and they had fallen behind on their schedule: T’Pau was not one to tolerate idle, unproductive waits, so they’d better hurry.

What angered Jim the most about the whole accident was that the bird-of-prey had dared come _that_ close to New Vulcan. _The nerve of them!_

He walked silently to where his second in Command was standing in front of his station, staring unseeingly down at his instruments. Jim frowned again upon realising that his friend was still shaking, but he played dumb and wrapped both hands around the scientist’s trembling arms from behind -God, didn’t he smell delicious!- and pulled.

“Come on, let’s go check on Pavel!”

 

* * *

 

 

 

As soon as Spock understood that Jim had forcibly led him to sickbay in order to have him examined, he sent him a withering look of pure betrayal, and Vulcan composure be damned. The human snickered softly at him and smiled at McCoy, who was already growling at his new patient. “I sure hope you know damn well this is all your freakin’ fault!” he snarled, running his tricorder all over his chest and sides, “Next time, try and remember you’re half- _Vulcan_ , not demi- _god_ , is that clear, you thick-headed hobgoblin?”

Kirk laughed loudly. “Aw, Bones, give him a break! He just saved the ship, let him breathe!”

He moved around the room to stop by Chekov’s bed, keeping a safe distance from the Russian so as not to push the doctor into hypoing him to submission. “Seems like Spock caught your flu!” he said conversationally, pleased to notice the navigator was already recovering. _Good job, Bones_.

“Aye, sir!” he approved cheerfully, “I told him he should be more careful, yes, but he ne _w_ er, ne _w_ er listens!”

“I can hear you, gentlemen,” Spock reminded them point-blank, stifling a cough.

Leonard made a scornful sound at the back of his throat and shot a full Hypo spray into his pale neck. “That’s no less than three days of medical leave for you, _mister_ ,” he sassed him.

“Negative,” the First Officer objected firmly as Jim whistled in shameless admiration of his courage. “We are to meet T’Pau in 2.504 days. I will not and cannot avoid meeting her and the children on New Vulcan.”

“Now see here, you foolish, over-confident…” McCoy was ready to wage him war, face reddening in warning as he raised his tricorder to wield it as an improvised weapon.

“Bones. Let him. Half a day less won’t kill him; besides, what do you expect we can do without a Vulcan?” Kirk punched his ex-roommate’s shoulder, willing him to yield with wide, playful eyes, “I’ll make sure he stays in bed, no working, relax only!”

“Captain, may I…” The Vulcan was clearly about to fight his statement and declare himself fit for duty, but Leonard clapped his hands briskly and nodded: “Fine. _Fine_. Just see to it that he stays put. Now get _outta_ my sickbay, both of you idiots!”

 

* * *

 

Spock was sprawled on his bed, buried under an enormous pile of thick blankets, arms crossed stiffly and lips pressed together; he was pouting (in a very collected, very Vulcan way) and wore two ridiculous wool sweaters on top of his science blues.

 _Dammit if he isn’t cute!_ Jim thought, walking with a sprint towards his brooding friend and carefully carrying a tray of food with one hand and a book with the other. “I brought you Plomeek soup!” he volunteered quite unnecessarily, setting the tray on the bedside table and dragging a chair closer by hooking his foot on its plastic leg. When the Vulcan made no move to acknowledge either him or the food, he added: “Cheer up, it’s just the flu!” Kirk placed a cup of tea in his friend’s lap and sat down by his side, reaching out to press his palm against his second’s almost human-warm forehead only to snatch it back guiltily - _unnecessary touching!_

Spock didn’t seem to mind, though, he had closed his eyes briefly and perhaps relaxed a little. It was great to be able to help someone for a change -to care for someone. Jim was more than happy to bear with the Vulcan’s sour mood. “Here’s something to read,” He offered him the book he had brought, “It’s the full collection of Shakespeare’s plays. Very old too -it’s my favourite.”

The Science Officer nodded slowly. “Thank you, Jim,” he murmured, looking down as if in shame; his shoulders were once again set, tense. “What’s wrong, Spock?” Kirk couldn’t stop from asking, wondering if he was the cause of his friend’s discomfort. “Are you feeling worse? Would you like me to leave?”

He appeared to hesitate, and then he gathered himself and shook his head faintly: “No, sir, I… would like to apologise.”

“ _Apologise_? And for what?” Kirk was appalled, both at the admission and at the mysterious motives behind it; perhaps he had heard wrong? And what about the sudden formalities? And, more importantly, why was Spock looking like he was awaiting to be court martialled?

“I have made an error which put you -and the crew of the Enterprise- in grave danger,” the Vulcan muttered, a small crease appearing between his endearing eyebrows. Ah, yes: definitely pouting.

Jim chuckled lively: “You’re overthinking.”

“I assure you, I am not.”

“Oh yes you are,” The human smiled wide, patting the Vulcan’s arm and barely resisting the urge to just lean down and kiss that perfect fringe of his. Such an absurd haircut shouldn’t have been so tempting. “That was one mistake you made in, like, four years? Don’t worry. You’re still my favourite.” He said so teasingly, but knew it to be profoundly true.

“It is illogical for a Captain to have favourites,” Spock announced haughtily, yet Jim could see he was pleased, very pleased; in fact, he glowed with it -how he managed that while keeping his usual poker face was beyond comprehension: it must have been the eyes.

The scientist drank a few sips of scalding tea, then, and picked up his plate of soup good-naturedly: “Do you not wish to eat?” he asked the human, regarding him curiously, “If you are hungry, I am more than willing to share.”

The Captain grinned: “Nah, I’m fine, thanks. I made plans to eat with Bones and Scotty later on.” The Vulcan seemed almost dejected, though he endured the small rejection with his signature stoicism. “Hopefully you’ll be asleep by then.”

“Indeed.” Spock looked appeased; after some moments of silence in which he ate several spoonfuls of Plomeek, he spoke again: “May I then inquire as to where you acquired your shirt?”

“Oh, this?” Jim glanced down at the shirt he’d slipped on to replace his golden uniform: it read, next to a fancy stylised planet, ‘Space Globe Theatre’. _Small talk. Bless him, he’s doing small talk -a Vulcan_. “I worked a few months for the theatre when I was fifteen.” The answer was out of his mouth before he could even think about what to tell. He never, _ever_ talked about his past, especially not to people he cared about; hell, not even his _mother_ had a clue -only Bones knew, and that was simply because he had helped him through the worst of his worst, and he’d seen him senselessly drunk, like, a gazillion times. But Spock? With Spock it was different -and it felt so good.

“I find that…” The Vulcan stopped mid-sentence, swallowing hard, then continued talking as if nothing had happened: “Most fascinating.”

Kirk laughed gently, “Have you ever been ill?” he questioned, pulling out a box of tissues from a wide pocket in front of his shirt. He dumped one in his friend’s outstretched hand just in time for him to sneeze in it; Jim’s fingers went around the plate to prevent it from tipping over when Spock jolted violently.

“Twice as an infant,” He answered in a slightly nasal voice, “Vulcans are rarely ill.” He sounded a little ashamed, and the human noticed that on top of his sickly blush, a new layer of green dusted his cheeks.

 _Damn you and your cuteness_ , the Captain thought, _you should be illegal._

“Well, just don’t fight it, Spock, let it run its course. If you wanna cough, do it, and so on.”

The alien nodded unsteadily and allowed himself an unobtrusive, small cough; Kirk wondered again if he should leave so he didn’t feel obligated to act all proper in his presence. He reached out once more to touch his forehead, finding it warmer than before. “Listen, Spock, I backed you up with Bones, but are you sure you’re up to it? Will you be alright if you… I mean, I obviously know how important T’Pau is; but your health is more important than that.”

“Do not concern yourself with these matters,” Spock demanded, unconsciously leaning into his touch -which totally _didn’t_ fill Jim with a fuzzy feeling of light-headedness. It did _not_. “I shall be perfectly functional.”

“Perfectly functional. Of course. And I’m supposed to believe that because…?”

The computer beeped sharply, interrupting their barely-started banter, and Kirk got up swiftly to open communications with sickbay. “Hey, Bones, what’s up?”

 _“Spock, are you sleeping yet?”_ the doctor barked into his intercom.

Spock lifted both eyebrows in morbid fascination: “How would you expect me to answer if I were sleeping? You are deeply illogical.”

_“Shut the hell up and sleep, you don’t have the energies to sass me. Jim, stop molesting my patient and come down.”_

“He is hardly molesting me, doctor,” the Vulcan protested immediately.

 _“Still awake? Now don’t make me come up and Hypo you into oblivion. Jimmy, you are_ so _due for your medical and don’t think for a moment you can avoid it forever. Spock certainly won’t miss you.”_

“Doctor, please, _cease_ speaking on my behalf.”

Before McCoy could reply, Kirk decided to surrender to his fate: “I’ll be there in a minute. Awful tyrant.” He switched the computer off and took the now-empty plate from the Vulcan, placed it on the tray. “See? It’s not all bad, having the flu. _You_ get to skip your medical.”

Apparently Spock had no idea how to answer his statement, because he stayed silent, regarding him with barely-concealed fond amusement.

“Sleep well, Spock,” Jim murmured, ordering the lights out.

“ _Shaya tonat_ , Jim,” came the gentle whisper from the darkness. _Thank you._

Kirk smiled.

 

* * *

 

 

 _Vulcans are illogical_. This was Jim’s only thought as he stood under the unforgiving heat of New Vulcan’s atmosphere and waited for T’Pau to be done bullying his half-blood First Officer. Bones had shot him a Hypo containing a tri-ox compound to help him breathe, but he still found it quite difficult to gulp down the thin, scorching air, even inside the recently rebuilt Science Academy. Kirk had visited Vulcan when he was little, before Tarsus, on the one and only occasion he had accompanied his mother on a mission; he had seen the intimidatingly monumental capital, _Shi’Kahr_ , smelled the spicy taste of the desert winds, heard the quiet, polite chattering of the people filling the crowded streets, ran away from a wild sehlat after he’d annoyed it awake from its peaceful slumber. And now he couldn’t help but notice the slight, ever-present differences with this foreign planet that was nothing more than a colony, and wonder how hard those same differences must be on the survivors.

He had beamed down with Spock and Uhura in the presence of the High Council and all fourteen of the rescued children, or _miracle children_ , as the Enterprise crew had taken to calling them in the few days they’d spent on board; they’d made quite the amusing welcome committee, serious and proper as they were, little faces unsmiling but wide sharp eyes twinkling in happiness, led by a stupendously severe young Saavik as they cluttered around Spock’s legs in their haste to greet him. Jim had noticed differences in the Vulcan’s behaviour, too: on the ship, he had frequently petted and hugged and even picked up some members of his fan club, and he’d been openly affectionate with them; now he stood silent, barely acknowledging them with curt nods and the _ta’al_ and detachedly inquiring after their health.

As the hours progressed, Spock grew more and more stiff -and Jim could hardly blame him for it, seeing as the others treated him in a condescending, contemptuous manner that made _Kirk_ ’s hands itch with the urge to punch some Vulcan straight in the nose, he could only imagine how his friend must be feeling. They made it seem as if Spock was some sort of intruding outsider -someone who didn’t exactly belong, but that they were forced to accept regardless of their reserves.

The Captain realised he’d never seen his second’s full emotional control in place until that moment, for now the hybrid’s fine features had smoothed down to immobile indifference, his back straightened impossibly, his shoulders squared and his chin raised almost stubbornly. He bore himself remarkably well for someone under the assault of his peers’ ugly prejudices, and Jim followed his lead, ignoring the unrelenting cascade of insults and showing off his diplomatic skills for his sake, even as he wondered if Vulcans had ever really heard of IDIC.

He finally understood why his friend was so obsessed with perfection, why he never allowed himself the benefit of doubt, why he was constantly on edge, as if expecting rejection, why he was so quick to deem himself unworthy, why he was so reluctant to show even the mere hint of weakness, why he was so harsh upon himself while at the same moment so tolerant of others.

_This is crazy._

Spock bowed to his ancient matriarch as he approached her respectfully; both Kirk and Uhura imitated his gesture and stood almost to attention in front of that historical figure, albeit neither of them was willing to show the tiniest bit of submission to her.

“I have brought you the positive results of my research,” Spock stated quietly, holding out his Padd to the wrinkled woman; from her place sitting on what could only be a logical excuse for an old-fashioned throne, she looked down at the half-Vulcan, supremely cold and unwavering. “If you would allow me point three-nine hours in your scientific laboratories I can…”

“ _Rai_.” The sharp denial filled the silence of the empty room, bouncing off the high walls and freezing the humans with its unexpectedness. Spock, however, did not appear at all surprised, and he simply cocked his head to the side by a millimetre or so in clear request of an explanation. “Thee has refused thy right upon choosing to join Starfleet; thee does not belong in this place: thee shall leave thy formula for our scientists to examine for merit.”

Jim’s mouth fell open with a loud pop and no, he didn’t give a damn if it made him look like some emotional human, because, hell, that’s what he was, and he was feeling outright outrage in his friend’s behalf. Had T’Pau forgotten she wouldn’t even be _alive_ hadn’t it been for Spock’s position as Acting Captain of the Enterprise during the tragedy? How convenient. And how illogical.

He was almost tempted to whisper that word, _riolozhikaik_ , low enough that it would pass for him thinking out loud but definitely loud enough for the Vulcans to hear. Almost. He controlled himself so as not to further embarrass Spock, and schooled his expression into cold rage, then watched the hybrid closely to see how _he_ would reply to the offence. The woman was asking him to _surrender his discovery to the hands of others_ after he’d spent weeks in the ship’s laboratories trying to find a way for the _mashyas_ to survive in the new environment, when in a good four and a half years none of Vulcan’s scientists had been able to do so. It was disgraceful.

The Science Officer tensed visibly, his lips twitched in the barest hint of a grimace, and his eyes dropped to the floor for a moment, long downcast lashes drawing thin shadows on his high cheekbones; he sent Jim a fleeting glance before turning back towards T’Pau. The human knew that, had it been just the two of them, in those wonderfully expressive eyes he would have seen shame, humiliation: Spock was mortified. But still he did not flinch, keeping up his pretence of unfeelingness, nodding briefly as he accepted his matriarch’s decision.

“Very well. Thee has the power; thy will is mine.” He sounded extremely hard, as if his words had been made of steel. He handed T’Pau the Padd, bowed again and gracefully walked away; Nyota and Jim exchanged a worried look, then she hurried after the half-Vulcan while the Captain took his leave from the most influential person in the Federation by reciting at her, in her native language, one of his favourites among Surak’s teachings. _“We have differences. May we, together, become greater than the sum of both of us.”_

 

* * *

 

Spock and Uhura were awaiting beam up when he joined them; the half-Vulcan was talking quietly to his father, watched closely by three of the Elders and, of course, little Saavik. When the Science Officer took a few steps away from them to leave, she followed, never taking her eyes off him. Both humans chuckled lively, and even Spock’s chilled expression softened a bit -he sent Ambassador Sarek a glance of rebellious indifference and kneeled in front of the girl, placing his hands on her slender shoulders and drawing her into an almost-embrace. Jim stared as he leaned forward to whisper in her hear: “How are you faring, _kan-bu_?” His tone was gentle and caring, so different from that he had used with T’Pau.

Saavik blinked once, surprised by the sudden change, and her mouth curved in the smallest of smiles as she answered: “I am faring quite well; your father is most kind, and for that I am grateful.”

Spock nodded. “How is your life at the colony?” Kirk heard the unspoken questions there - _Did you find acceptance? Do you believe you can belong here?_

The child set her jaw infinitesimally, raised her chin. “It is… endurable.” _I believe I_ will _belong._

“And the children?”

“We are friends.”

Spock seemed appeased, then, and he slid two fingers across her forehead in a parting gesture: “Live long and prosper, Saavik. May your future be fortunate.”

“Peace and long life, Spock- _an_.”

Nyota kissed her cheeks, Jim hugged her tightly, and they were off.

 

* * *

 

 

As per usual, Kirk invited Spock to his quarters to play chess.

Jim sprawled carelessly on his chair, while the Vulcan sat with his customary grace and composure in front of him, folding his fingers together to lean his chin on them; their game was like a dance, elegant and ever-changing, full of twists and turns and unexpected moves as the simple pastime became an intense battle of wits and strategy, the touching of two minds so different and yet so alike.

“So it’s shore leave tomorrow, uh!” the human exclaimed in glee, lifting his bishop to capture his friend’s rook with a smirk. “Still up for it, are you?”

“Indeed, Jim,” Spock murmured, retaliating by trapping his Captain’s Queen between a knight and his surviving rook. “If you would listen, I would like to explain the High Council’s behaviour today…”

Jim raised his head to look him in the eyes, feeling the cheer drain out of him as he saw the small, next-to-invisible signs of the Science Officer’s distress. “There’s nothing to explain. They’re a bunch of stuck-up assholes with enough prejudice and bigotry to rival 20th Century Earth.”

Spock huffed a little at that, arched his left eyebrow. “You misunderstand. Infinite Diversity in Infinite Combinations…”

“Come on, you must be kidding! You’re the only Vulcan I know who actually gives a damn about IDIC.” Kirk crossed his arms and frowned, daring his friend to contradict him. He didn’t, lowering his head in silent defeat, which prompted Jim to continue even more heatedly: “You c _an’t_ want to justify them, please! People like them are the reason I used to get in so many fights -they _deserve_ my scorn, and they sure as hell deserve _yours_!”

For a while they were silent; Spock shifted his focus back on their game and Jim let him, giving him space, time to think about what he’d said. He contented himself with watching those beautiful white hands glide across the chessboard, brushing against the pieces with the lightest of touches. Then suddenly the Vulcan’s eyes were on him, a soft, contemplative glance that seemed to be searching for his soul, right into his very core.

“As a child I was made very aware of my inferiority,” Spock stated calmly, as if he’d been talking about the weather; Jim felt as if he had just passed a test. “My blood and my mind are tainted by human weaknesses and emotions. My existence alone is enough to bring dishonour to my clan.”

The ghost of a smile graced his lips, caressing his face and settling there. “I find I do not care anymore about their opinion of me.”

Jim laughed, a rich, bright sound that filled his quarters with mirth. “That’s good, because you don’t need to.”

“For this I have you to thank,” Spock confessed quietly, before giving him the Vulcan version of a smirk and declaring: “Also, checkmate.”

Jim scoffed, looking down at the board in surprise. _That’s what I get for letting him distract me with deep talk._ “Well, that was quick. Next time I’ll totally do you in, is that clear?”

“Of course, Jim, you may try,” his First Officer said, nodding gravely in mock-seriousness. “I look forward to being defeated by your erratic playing.”

“Did I ever mention just how irritating you can be?” the human growled, picking up the pieces so they could start again. Spock’s eyes sparkled mischievously as he helped him, placing each piece precisely in the centre of its square: “You did, sir, seventy-three times as of now.”

Kirk gaped at him: “You’ve been keeping tabs?” he asked, shaking his head.

Both eyebrows came up then: “Evidently.” He left out the ‘illogical human with unnecessary questions’ bit, but Jim heard it loud and clear in his tone.

“You know, seventy-three times is not nearly enough.” He reached out to slap his friend’s shoulder with a resounding clap and grinned at him: “You’ll be pleased to know you’re the most irritating creature I’ve ever had the misfortune of meeting.”

“Were I human, I would return the sentiment whole-heartedly.” Spock declared.

“ _Really_ , Spock?” Jim brought his hand to his heart, feigning hurt, “I’m worse than Bones?”

“Infinitely worse, yes,” the scientist assured him mercilessly, “I believe the phrase would be ‘he cannot hold a candle to your illogic’.”

The Captain sniggered at that, stretching in his chair. “You are aware I’ll take that as a compliment,” he warned, mimicking his second’s formal speech patterns.

“Very much so, Jim.”

Jim batted his eyelashes at him, pretending to be shy and flattered, “You’re too kind, Mister Spock,” he said, playing seductive.

And there it was, the picture of perfection: one very happy Vulcan.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, so, I hope you had fun with this piece! Next one will be shore leave, and I’ll go for sweet, some angst, rainy days, cooking together, going to the theatre… No action, feels only!  
> Live long and prosper people, and many thanks to everyone who read, followed, left kudos or a comment!


	7. Domestic

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “The temperature outside has lowered considerably,” Spock stated flatly, quite out of the blue. Jim glanced at the windows and, sure enough, the glass was fogged, turned white by the thick condensation. Without awaiting invitation, he jumped up on the Vulcan’s bed, on top of the covers because, no matter what Bones kept saying, he wasn’t self-destructive and had no intention of dying out of sheer heat. His friend kept staring intently at him from beneath his pile of warm blankets, until Kirk felt compelled to cross his arms and snarl: “Don’t you dare raise the temperature again.” He pointed at the very thin undershirt and shorts he was wearing and added, snorting, “That’s as naked as I can go for the sake of decency, and it’s already hot as hell in here!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> May I present to you chapter 7? A very relaxed shore leave in which we’ll explore the wonderful world of Jim’s inner conflicts!

**_7_ **

**_Domestic_ **

Shore leave didn’t go at all according to plans, but that seemed to be the constant with Jim’s life, thus he wasn’t really surprised, just a little annoyed: he had promised his Vulcan, desert-bred best friend warm weather and sunny days, so of course it _had_ to be raining buckets that week planet-side, an almost constant shower of cold mist. Spock was his usual gentle self and bore it quite well, with a resigned not-sigh and a mutter of ‘ _kaiidth_ ’. He _did_ raise the temperature by several degrees, though, to a point were Kirk went around the house barefoot and sleeveless, and of course he categorically refused to stick his nose out the door.

He retained the ugly grey jumpers he’d worn during his illness, only now he added a pair of thick, spongy socks which he put on top of his regular, Starfleet-issued black ones and his trousers; Jim did not find it ridiculous at all, no: to him, this nerdy, bookworm side of Spock was basically adorable -disturbingly adorable, if he said so himself. Especially considering the effect was enhanced by the Vulcan’s newly discovered obsession, that came in the form of National Geographic documentaries watched every evening while curled up beneath a mountain of blankets on the couch. Kirk humoured him with that, even finding himself enjoying the soft, enraptured _Fascinating_ s uttered in the almost complete darkness and sharing his friend’s obvious excitement as he settled on the floor in an attempt to cool his overly heated limbs.

It was the very first shore leave they spent alone together, and it proved to be a revealing experience, for both.

On day three, Jim tried out Vulcan cuisine: he was quite the good cook, because he had obtained the skill out of necessity when he was little and left to fend for himself with a broken replicator as his only companion; he was confident enough he could come up with something at least vaguely similar to the original recipe, even if the available ingredients were obviously terran-like in nature, so he commandeered Spock out of the kitchen and set about working alone. The scientist, for all of his grace and intelligence, was a complete klutz among pots and pans -the last time he’d been allowed to help, he had managed to set a rug on fire and spill water on their finished spaghetti in one move, much to McCoy’s chagrin. The poor Vulcan had acted all guilty and mortified around his Captain for a whole month after that incident.

Jim smiled quietly to himself as he moved around the small, cosy room, acquainting himself with the pale orange tiles, the worn-looking stove, the piles of bowls and matching dishes filling the mint-green cupboards. It was extremely pleasing to handle real food for a change, and plus the whole place smelled nicely of ancient times, of rain and the smoke from burning wood -though it brought bitter memories to the surface of his conscious, he still cherished the feeling of _genuine_ , still cherished the act of putting together an authentic meal.

He chose a traditional vegetarian dish, the _balk’ra_ , since it closely resembled a terran casserole and he had a large supply of fresh vegetables; he hummed contentedly as he kept an eye on the pasta bubbling cheerfully in its boiling water and stirred the mixture of mushrooms and onion in a pan, inhaling the scent of rich, fried oil as if he were a starved man. He made sure to add a generous amount of spices to the seasoning for the potato cubes, for he knew well how Vulcans enjoyed piquant stuff. He found it preposterous and, dare he say, illogical, that desert-bred people from all over the universe tended to prefer having their mouths set aflame with every bite they took, as if their world wasn’t hot enough already. Oh, well. It wasn’t really his place to judge, now, was it?

He went on singing absentmindedly the lyrics to a classical song from the twenty-first Century, completely unaware of the dark, guileless eyes following his every move.

Spock stared, transfixed, at his _t’hy’la_ navigating the narrow kitchen as if he belonged there: he was sure and collected, a steady presence, calmer and more at peace than the Vulcan had ever seen him, absolutely entrancing. It was an entirely foreign sight -his reckless, relentless Captain so at ease assembling such a small thing as a meal- and yet, somehow, it felt familiar. So pleasant to watch. So _beautiful_.

“ _When I thought that I fought this war alone_ …” Jim was murmuring softly, surprisingly in tune, as he bent down to slide a baking tray inside the pre-heated oven, “ _You were there by my side on the frontline_ …” 

The First Officer did not know the song, but found it to be also pleasing, the lyrics fitting their current relationship to some extent. He stood silently by the door, holding his forgotten Padd in one hand, mind racing wildly, twisting around the fact that Jim -oh, so golden a creature- was utterly unattainable and still closer than anyone else. He was inexorably drawn to him, but he couldn’t help but stop a few steps away, frozen in his effort to maintain a firm control over his every urge, even if it meant fighting his desperate desire -the constant need he felt to join their minds and taste that sweet honey again. _T’hy’la._

Kirk clapped his hands, squatting on the floor to peer inside the oven; Spock’s eyes never left him. “ _When I thought that I fought without a cause…_ ” the song went on, so accurate, “ _You gave me a reason to try…_ ”

The Vulcan sighed heavily -which, for him, meant he exhaled a slightly deeper breath and slumped his shoulders by a millimetre or so- and thought about Nyota’s repeated advice: _you should just tell him the truth_.

He was well aware, though, that the odds were against him: Jim, promiscuous, womanizer Jim, would only be scared away if he knew, if Spock told him about the kind of commitment bonding to one’s _t’hy’la_ brought, if he showed him the depth of his affections and regard for him. It simply wasn’t worth the risk, because the half-blood had already lost so much -so _many_ \- and he couldn’t afford to live without the easy, trusting friendship they shared. Thus, he kept quiet, pining from a distance. It was _enough_ , being friends. It had to be enough.

After allowing himself another tiny sigh, he joined Kirk by the counter to offer what little help he could without accidentally blowing the kitchen up.

* * *

 

Spock lay the table as Jim filled the dishes; the human looked up at his friend with eyes brightened in expectation as soon as he sat in front of his plate; the Vulcan quirked his lips upwards in what the Captain had come to recognise as a smile, then dipped his fork in the vegetarian casserole, lifted it to his lips, blew some air to cool the morsel down, took a mouthful, chewed with great care, swallowed. Silently, he sat about cutting the whole thing to very symmetrical pieces, while Kirk watched bemusedly, reminding himself that for all that they were friends, his second was definitely not one to give away compliments with any ease.

“Well, what do you think?” he asked, tasting the _balk’ra_ himself and finding it pleasant.

The Vulcan’s face went stiff, his eyes closed off. “It is… very well done, Jim,” he whispered, a little too formal for the human’s liking. It seemed to him as if his friend was becoming more uncomfortable by the second. “You don’t like it? You can tell me, I won’t mind too much!” He snickered, raising both eyebrows at the unmoving scientist.

“No, Jim, I… My apologies.” He bent his head, set his shoulders. “I find it rather similar to the original recipe. As I said, it is very well done.”

“But you don’t like it.”

“My apologies.”

Jim frowned, uncomprehending. “I’ve seen you eat that thing once -you had _two_ helpings!” He shoved a second enormous bite into his mouth, thinking that maybe he could live with vegetarian if it came with a Vulcan in tow. Said Vulcan was now looking terribly tense, lips pursed and acting like one about to reveal some sort of dark, shameful secret. “It is… the spices.” Once again, he brought the fork up to his mouth and chewed quickly, allowing himself the smallest of winces. “They are… quite harsh upon my tongue.”

“You mean to tell me… they _sting_?” Jim gasped, disbelieving. “But… but you…”

“I am aware no other Vulcan has any such problems,” Spock murmured flatly, hiding his burning humiliation well, but not well enough that Kirk did not see it clearly.

“Oh, just shut up already!” the Captain basically ordered, “That’s not what I was gonna ask! I don’t give two shits about other Vulcans. What I want you to tell me is why you keep eating spicy food if it hurts you?” He made it sound like a question on purpose, to convey the whole of his incredulity and disapproval. Spock’s earnest eyes slid up and down his face, as if he were searching for jest. “It is the tradition,” he simply stated.

Jim waited almost a full minute for him to elaborate, then said: “So what?”

A graceful eyebrow was arched minimally. “ _So_ nothing. It simply _is_.” The Vulcan’s gaze conveyed all his confusion in front of the human’s confusion, then he joined his fingers on the table and went on: “You are… accurate when telling me I favour Plomeek soup above all else: it is the only Vulcan dish generally considered bland.”

Kirk bellowed, pointing his index finger at him: “A-ha! I _knew_ I’d get you to admit it!” He shook his head, got up fluidly, sent the scientist a fond smile. “Now, come on, Spock! To hell with tradition! Don’t like, don’t eat!” And with that, he took away his friend’s plate (firmly unheeding of his half-hearted, very polite protest) and placed it inside the fridge: “It’ll be my lunch for tomorrow.” He rummaged a little, yawning under his breath and tapping his foot on the floor impatiently until he found what he was looking for. “Here, you can have this.” He settled a colourful salad under the officer’s appalled face. “There’s… uh… tomatoes, lettuce, boiled corn, radicchio, chopped carrots, fresh peppers and just a little onion. Entirely spice-free!” He chuckled lively, patting the Vulcan’s shoulder before sitting back down at the table. “I made it for tomorrow, but we can switch.”

He resumed his meal, waiting for his friend to chill; after a while (scant minutes, as much as his limited patience allowed) he raised his head to look at him, and froze: Spock was staring at him with open adoration written on his fine features, eyes soft and warm with some kind of unspoken emotion that made the Captain’s skin tingle with a heady mixture of expectation and anxiety. It was… such a rare thing to see and yet he chose to ignore it without even knowing why -perhaps he was afraid to break the fragile equilibrium they had created through their months of shared experiences, their constant confrontation with death and the struggle to survive; perhaps he was afraid to let himself care too deeply; perhaps he felt as if he were threading on thin ice, and one wrong move could mean drowning beneath frozen water.

Be it as it may, he produced a cocky grin and, pretending his friend was his usual detached self, he retreated ever-so-slightly behind a mask of smug irreverence. Picking up an olive from a small jar, he threw it inside the Vulcan’s plate, where it landed with an undignified squeaking sound. Then he threw another one directly into his chest, smearing water and oil all over his civilian, old-fashioned shirt. Thankfully, Spock’s tender gaze melted into a frightening glare that gave way to a low, menacing growl, and the moment was gone.  

* * *

 

“The temperature outside has lowered considerably,” Spock stated flatly, quite out of the blue. Jim glanced at the windows and, sure enough, the glass was fogged, turned white by the thick condensation. Without awaiting invitation, he jumped up on the Vulcan’s bed, on top of the covers because, no matter what Bones kept saying, he wasn’t self-destructive and had no intention of dying out of sheer heat. His friend kept staring intently at him from beneath his pile of warm blankets, until Kirk felt compelled to cross his arms and snarl: “Don’t you _dare_ raise the temperature again.” He pointed at the very thin undershirt and shorts he was wearing and added, snorting, “That’s as naked as I can go for the sake of decency, and it’s already hot as hell in here!”

Spock burrowed himself deeper under the dark blue sheets, so that only his wide eyes and the tips of his ears where visible, then, with a soft rustle of fabric brushing fabric, he brought his knees up to his chest and hugged his legs tightly, in a very un-Vulcan fashion; the Captain smirked privately, feeling absolutely lucky that the normally reserved, composed scientist deemed it safe to lower his defences in his presence. His self-satisfaction lasted for a few minutes, until his second gave him a level, ever-so-slightly resigned expression, the one he called _‘the Vulcan pout of martyrdom’_ , which clearly meant Spock was willing to sacrifice himself for the sake of Jim’s _human_ needs.

“I wouldn’t want you to be uncomfortable,” the First Officer declared for good measure, in an actual _earnest_ voice, “I shall endure.”

Suddenly Kirk wanted very much to smack him in the head, possibly hard. He was fully prepared to use the whole of his persuasive skills on his friend, but that was before he got a better look at him -was his nose a little green? And weren’t his lips beginning to dry? Jim just _had_ to give up, at that point. “Fine! One degree _only_ ,” he conceded, biting his lip. “You spoiled, manipulating bastard.”

“Thank you, Jim. You have my gratitude.” And without further ado, Spock extricated his left arm from his nest to reach for the controls and raise the temperature to the point Kirk thought he would sweat his skin off. The sight of the Vulcan snatching his arm back under the covers as if he’d been burned and shivering quietly did have its merits, though.

“I expect you to at least buy me drinks for all this trouble,” Jim said, scooting closer to the wall so he could rest his back against it.

“That shall never happen,” the scientist made sure to inform him, “But you may choose the channel we are to watch this evening.”

“Oh, I may? And you’re giving me permission, aren’t you?” Kirk murmured with venomous sweetness.

“I am.” Spock looked perfectly collected now, obviously not worried in the slightest to incur in his Captain’s wrath. He handed him the remote controller, which he had taken apart and reassembled first thing when they had arrived. “I am quite curious as to what your choice will be.”

The planet they were visiting was basically earth in the early 90s, complete with silly TV programs and weird music; Jim had decided to stay in the equivalent of the USA, because it was an English-speaking country, and since English was the closest language to Standard, he figured it would be easier for Spock to acclimatize. After a ten-minute search, he chose to watch an old sci-fic movie about an alien invasion, and they enjoyed themselves by thoroughly tearing it apart scene by scene. Or at least they did up until the point where the Vulcan fell soundly asleep without a warning.

Kirk gaped: it was so damn rare for the scientist to sleep more than the human did, but then again, it was about time he rested a little. On the ship, Spock seldom slept, taking almost every shift and spending most of his free time locked away in the labs, unless Bones stepped in and forced him into a couple of days of medical leave -and even then, it simply equated to transferring his work from around the ship to his quarters. Hell, it was _shore leave_ and he had a pile of blinking Padds on his bedside table, the workaholic. Jim briefly considered stealing a few and hiding them somewhere, but he restrained himself, because he liked his head where it was, firmly attached to his neck, thank you.

He smiled as he looked down at Spock’s peaceful face, then he stripped his last blanket from his own bed and carried it across the room to let it fall on his friend’s unmoving form; the room was dark and he had turned off the TV: in the silence, he could hear each even breath escaping from the Vulcan’s severe mouth, each raindrop crashing against their window, the sound of cars running in the distance, the occasional _hoot hoot_ of the owls hidden in the night. It was a long time before he, too, fell asleep.

* * *

 

He woke up early enough, shaken by the sound of a storm thundering against the frail windows; surprisingly, Spock was still lost in a deep, peaceful slumber, almost completely hidden by his faithful pile of blankets, which, for the record, hadn’t moved more than an inch from where Jim had left them in the evening. Careful of not making noise, the human rose from his bed and tiptoed across the room so he was standing by the Vulcan’s bedside table, the better to stare him down.

He was so relaxed and vulnerable that way, nothing like the unwavering, ruthless scientist that alone managed half of the _Enterprise_ ’s affairs. Those long dark lashes of his rested against his high cheekbones, the shadows they casted fluttering from time to time as his eyelids trembled; Kirk had heard many things about Vulcans: some people said they didn’t even dream, but that didn’t seem to be the case with his friend… Then again, there was very little information about them.

Had it been anyone else, Jim would have jumped him then and there, he was so tempting. This was Spock, though, and it was different, he deserved better; there could be -and would be- no casual thing about him, because they trusted each other and the human valued that trust more than anything else in the world. It humbled and pleased him both to see the amount of loyalty and faith the Vulcan placed in him.

He liked Spock an awful lot, he’d liked him for ages, but it had never mattered because until that moment he had always believed his friend to be unreachable -even after he had broken up with Uhura, he simply was… distant, too good, too proper, too out of his league. And yet now it was becoming more and more evident just how attached the Vulcan had grown -how easy it was for him to lose that cold mantle of pure logic and warm up around him -he appeared to regard him as family, at the very least.

Jim was vastly unsettled by such familiarity. Aside from Bones -because Bones had always been the exception to his every rule- he’d never let anyone so near, and he’d certainly never been held in such high esteem by the people who knew him so well.

He sighed softly and decided to let Spock sleep in without disturbing him. So he left him a note -on a real piece of actual paper, which was terribly cool.

 

_I’m going out, sleepyhead, to take a stroll. Feel free to meditate or do whatever respectable Vulcans do when they’re alone._

_I’ll be back before lunch, so don’t you dare go anywhere near the kitchen! _

_I’m leaving you tea in a thermos and cookies on the table._

__

_-J_

 

It was almost a two-hour walk to the nearest city, and even though it was raining buckets, Jim decided to forgo the car, choosing instead to make his way through the pouring water without taking an umbrella.

He needed time to think, and he liked the rain -he found it relaxing, pleasant, clear, a source of life, a promise of hope; back in Tarsus during the famine it had been so scarce: it happened only twice, and both times had been times of wonder, and joy, and relief; the transparent water had washed away a little of the land’s ugliness, eagerly swallowed by the too-dry dirt which had begun a slow metamorphosis into mud, delightful mud that hinted a capacity for new growth. It had trailed down the parched, battered skin of the children-turned-savages, cleansing their serious, thin faces and bringing back a sliver of their long-lost innocence. Only then had young Jim allowed them to run free for a while, to play among the burnt remnants of the forest, to paint their cheeks and skinny arms with stripes of black, wet ashes. Only then had he joined them, momentarily dismissing his responsibilities.

Because of the rain.

A much different rain -though, really, all rain was just as precious- now tickled Kirk’s already soaked hair, falling into his neck and drenching his jacket, all the way to his T-shirt. He paid the cold discomfort no mind, though, focusing on the even cadence of his steps, on the rhythmic, rich sound of lush droplets hitting russet earth -coming home- and, more importantly, on his quite alarming thoughts regarding his First Officer.

So Spock had basically become an integral part of his life. Okay. He could deal with it. Maybe. Provided he kept his distance and his wits about him -provided he didn’t do anything stupid like falling in love, because, really, falling in love was just about the worst thing that could happen to a person, and Jim knew it well, for he had seen his mother, had seen how George’s death had destroyed her, turned her into a ghost of herself.

“I love him,” she had said, a hunted look making her pretty eyes hollow and frightening, as she stared down at her youngest son and saw nothing but the taunting memory of her husband.

“I love you,” she had said, as she accepted the ring Frank offered her and bound her life -and her children’s lives- to an intolerant, alcoholic bastard.

“Goodbye, kids, I love you,” she had said, bags in her hands and she once more left her boys alone with a monster to run away from her past and join the umpteenth Starfleet mission.

“It’s for the best, baby, you know I love you,” Winona had claimed, an empty smile on her worn-out face as she patted unruly blond hair, bright under the scorching sun beaming down on Tarsus.

And Jim had learned the hard way that to love was to destroy, to love was to die a slow and painful death, to love was to hurt, to love was a dangerous, messy affair, absolutely not worth the effort of baring your heart out and making yourself vulnerable, so vulnerable and fragile and exposed…

How could he drag Spock into such a thing? He couldn’t. He wouldn’t, most definitely.

A soft, pitiful, mewling sound came from somewhere behind him, successfully tearing him apart from his morose musing, and Kirk turned to see a tiny, black ball of wet fur staring up at him with exceptionally bright eyes. “Hello, there, little guy, are you lost?” Smiling delicately to himself, the human bent down to gather the trembling cat into his arms, deciding then and there that he would bring… _her_ … home with himself. It would make a nice surprise to his Vulcan friend, who had on many occasions shown a very amusing feline behaviour…

 

* * *

 

 

When Jim attempted to slump down on the sofa, the cat was already comfortably settled in Spock’s lap, drenched fur and all, and the starship Captain deemed it only fair that he, too, should get some rest, except that a cold hand suddenly placed on the small of his back prevented him from completing the motion, effortlessly keeping him somewhere between sitting and standing. “I would much prefer you dried out before attempting to join me.” The Vulcan declared adamantly, giving him a light push that sent him staggering a few steps away from him.

Kirk’s eyes widened, and he glared at his friend in pure, undisguised outrage: “Do you mean to tell me the cat can walk around getting the house -and your clothes- wet and _I_ can’t?”

Clearly pleased that the human had understood his position so quickly, Spock gave him a satisfied nod, waving idly towards the restrooms. “Precisely.”

The Captain snorted loudly, took off his dripping jacket, waved it dangerously close to the Vulcan, who recoiled, just an inch or so. “Oh yeah? And what if I, too, wanted to get you all wet?”

In a fleeting moment of unguarded emotion, the Science Officer lifted his eyes away from the cat to meet Kirk’s own, chocolate brown melting and open and utterly exposed before they once more settled back to their default placid warmth. “That would be unwise,” he intoned levelly, as if nothing had occurred. “Furthermore, I would like to point out that it is not only for my sake I speak. You are an uncharacteristically delicate human: you should dry out.”

“Yeah, yeah, tell me something I don’t know…” But he was too shocked and confused to fight him longer, and stomped to the bathroom, hands raised in evident defeat. “Glad to see you too…”

Jim knew a _come-hither_ look when he saw one, and he was fairly certain that his First Officer had never stared at him quite like that, but with Spock, he couldn’t really tell… or wouldn’t, that was more like it. But surely it wasn’t possible… Did his logical, calm, collected, ethical, Vulcan friend fancy _him_ , of all people? James Illogical Exasperating Hot-headed Kirk? The idea was, if not downright absurd, at least preposterous. He sighed again and fixed his mind on the oncoming shower.

 

* * *

 

 

After lunch, they went back to the living room, Jim sprawled on the sofa with a hard-cover book in his hands and Spock sitting cross-legged with a straight back on a thick layer of blankets arranged on the floor in a close imitation of a meditation mat; he held his faithful Padd in one hand while he absentmindedly petted the cat with the other, twisting his fingers gracefully in her now very dry, very soft fur. For little more than an hour, they were silent, relaxing, enjoying each other’s presence and the luxury of simply being, without constantly worrying about looming anomalies and angry aliens ready to throw a fit if they so much as blinked at the wrong time.

Kirk frowned a bit as he turned the last page of the novel, biting his lip as he allowed himself a moment to feel the loss of such a good story before he turned lazily among the pillows to lightly tap his friend’s shoulder. “What are you up to?” he asked, smiling at the Vulcan when he let his head fall back a little in order to look at him. “I am currently studying the history of ethnologies throughout the centuries in Earth, Vulcan, Tellar and Andoria,” came the immediate reply, and Spock offered him his Padd, letting him see the open page: a series of quotes from renowned authors written in their original languages and alphabets. Jim chuckled under his breath at the not-so-subtle reminder that the Vulcan, other than a scientist, had also been a Xenolinguistics professor -he _had_ taught Uhura, after all.

“You need help with that?” he blurted out, reading quickly through the familiar lesson, his mind instantly going back to a few years before, when he was still at the Academy. “Cause I totally aced Interstellar Ethnology when I took the exam, so maybe… eh… I could give you a hand if you… want?” He suddenly felt very insecure: was he really offering study tips to the most brilliant mind in the whole universe? But Spock gave him a placid, satisfied look, obviously unfazed by his restlessness, and nodded once: “That would be most agreeable.”

Pleased and astonished, Jim slid down off the sofa to sit by the Vulcan, stretching both arms and legs and stifling a yawn. “You’re always studying, aren’t you?” he teased, a playful grin on his face. Spock answered him with customary seriousness, and his brown eyes were focused on his and so intense it was almost difficult to hold his gaze. “I am fascinated by the number of things I do not yet know.”

“ _Yet_?” Kirk repeated, laughing openly now, “You planning to die with full universal knowledge in your hands?”

Lowering his eyelids just that little necessary to compose a perfectly condescending expression, the scientist arched one dark eyebrow and reclaimed his Padd, sifting through his notes. “That, Jim, would be both preposterous _and_ impossible.”

The human smiled fondly, even lovingly, at the back of Spock’s head, then froze as he realised what he’d been doing. _People leave_ , he reminded himself sternly, _people leave, and you have no business meddling with this kind of stuff_. But it was close to impossible to deny that he had never been so at ease in his life -he had always been on edge, ready to fight at a moment’s notice, ready to attack or defend or flee; that, to him, was _familiar_. He hadn’t thought familiar could also mean _safe_ -and now familiar was that light snorting sound Spock made when he was laughing inwardly at him, the slightly bitter scent of black tea that filled his quarters when they played chess, the disapproving glare that was the last thing he saw when he managed to land himself in trouble against all odds and the warm, concerned look that was the first one to meet his eyes when he woke up in sickbay.

 _Familiar_. A dangerous illusion: dangerous, because he wanted it, oh, how he wanted it, and yet he knew well he couldn’t allow himself that particular slip, not with Spock, not with anyone. It was crazy to even consider the idea.

Well, as long as the Vulcan wanted nothing more but to be friends…

“You are distracted,” Spock stated in a neutral tone, “Are you experiencing discomfort? Perhaps you _are_ ill and need to rest.” And, yup, he was being made fun of.

Kirk rolled his eyes very slowly, making sure to convey all his annoyance: “Shut up, _Bones_ ,” he snapped, smirking impishly at the scientist, “Perhaps you’re just looking for excuses to go back to your Padds, you incorrigible workaholic.”

“Perhaps,” Spock allowed, “But I was under the impression that one should be extremely unproductive during shore leave.”

Jim elbowed him in the ribs, wincing when the blow reverberated all the way up to his shoulder; Spock gave him an unimpressed glance that told him, quite clearly _‘you should know better than to hit me by now’_. Kirk shrugged, waving the pain off: “And in what kind of alternate universe does ‘studying’ fall into that category?”

The Vulcan chose to ignore the question, apparently deeming it beneath him. “Should we begin by reading _Historiae ivrisqve pvblici Regni Vngariae amoenitates_ by Adam Franz Kollár?”

“Why don’t we start from modern times and work our way back to the beginning?”

“That is… a most fascinating suggestion. Very well. I shall follow your lead.”

Again, Jim was struck by how domestic it all seemed. Yes, _domestic_. And it scared the hell out of him.

 

* * *

 

 

“I said you’re coming.”

“But Jim-”

“Shut up. I booked two tickets for a real theatre and there’s no way you’re not going.”

“It is-”

“The rain’s about to stop and if you’re cold you can have my jacket too.”

“I would-”

“I bought you a hat, _and_ mittens. Stop complaining.”

“That is most kind, however I…”

“We’ve gotta drop the cat here to a shelter, remember? Don’t you wanna say goodbye?”

Spock sighed his Vulcan martyr non-sigh, and allowed Jim to fill his hands with what appeared to be a pile of ocean-coloured wool. “Very well. I shall accompany you. I trust you will bring the umbrella this time.” A hint of distaste tinted his last sentence, and Kirk laughed wholeheartedly at that: “Your wish is my command, Commander,” he said in mock-seriousness.

“It is hardly so, Jim, and you are aware of that,” the scientist muttered, wrapping a thick scarf around his neck and chin until only his eyes were visible just below the rim of his hat. He was pleased that the human had thought to provide him the items to keep him warm, however he was most displeased that he was now forcing him to go outside in the cold and the wet. “I _insist_ that I would very much prefer to remain inside.”

Kirk’s finger was suddenly just a few inches shy of his nose, blue irises piercing and alight. “I said _no complaining_! This is The Barber of Seville! In _Italian_! In the actual 20 th Century! Now how many chances are there that you’ll get this lucky again?”

“Point three-nine-six against a hundred,” the Vulcan begrudgingly admitted. Picking up the cage where he had regrettably stacked their furry companion, he followed the human across the door. To his credit, Jim _did_ open the umbrella as soon as the Vulcan had as much as taken half a step under the rain, and Spock was all too happy to plaster himself to his friend’s side, taking advantage of his perfect -if entirely truthful- excuse for doing so.

Kirk sent him a fleeting look, shivering faintly in a mixture of worry and elation in front of such closeness. _It’s because of the rain. Only because of the rain_ , he told himself, shifting so that the umbrella covered the Vulcan almost completely. “You’re alright there? Nose starting to fall off?”

“I do not think so, Jim,” Spock declared, breathing carefully through his mouth, so the air would be warmed by his scarf and his breath. Jim looped an arm around his elbow and pulled him into a half-run: “Come on, we’ll take the car. I’ll drive!”

The eyebrow of doom disappeared under the hat, and the scientist turned to stare down the vehicle parked two feet from him with an air of resigned suffering: “I am uncertain whether to prefer the cold rain or your driving,” he grumbled; he did, however, fling himself inside without the slightest hesitation, seeking shelter from the unforgiving weather.

“Thanks for the confidence,” Kirk hissed, grinning almost manically at the stiff Vulcan, “I’m a safe driver, I guarantee.” When it became apparent that Spock had not believed him even for the fraction of a second, he added, shrugging as he turned the engine on: “I _did_ drive my stepfather’s car down a cliff once, but that was just for fun.”

The First Officer outright glared at him: “Your idea of fun is disturbing,” he stated, snapping his seatbelt closed and wrapping both arms around the cat’s cage protectively. Jim simply stuck his tongue out and drove away at full speed.

 

* * *

 

 

Kirk had thought that at the theatre Spock would have eased off, resumed some of his usual distance, except… he didn’t. They had a nice spot up the gallery, and found themselves surrounded by strangers -which was predictable- and wrapped up in quiet and darkness; the Vulcan, who had refused to take off even his gloves, had moved his seat as far away as possible from the ‘human’ on his left, subsequently getting as close to Jim as the stools would allow, so close in fact that their arms brushed at the slightest of movements. The telepath basked in his friend’s proximity, drinking in both his natural warmth and the gentle hum of thoughts and feelings lapping at his lowered shields. It was a grand yet simple experience: even such a superficial contact with his t’hy’la’s mental presence was profoundly steadying, and his own mind had been waiting so long, so long… he positively coveted a meld, desired with all of his being to simply merge himself with Jim’s essence and become one, forever. That would be… stupendous.

“Hey, did you hear that? That Figaro has the greatest voice _ever_ , I tell you!” Kirk clapped his hands enthusiastically as the first act drew to an end, almost dangling from the balustrade; Spock fought his urge to wrap one arm around his waist to pull him back and instead chose to tangle his fingers together to maintain control. “I did hear it, Jim. It is why we are here.”

Blue eyes sparkled his way, mischief and fake exasperation playing on those golden features. “Yeah, smartass, I know.” He flopped back down in his seat, ignoring the aggravated looks he was getting from the proper, composed people surrounding him. “You ever been to a theatre?”

“Prior to today, no, I have not. It is my first time.” Subtly, the Vulcan inched closer to his friend, seeking out his warmth -he was a little ashamed to be displaying such a need for physical proximity, but he was barely managing from keeping his body from trembling as it were… Jim stared at him for a few seconds before quickly shedding his jacket to wrap it around his shoulders: “Still cold?” he whispered.

“Indeed I am, Jim, however your gesture is most appr-”

In what seemed to have become a habit, the human cut him short, and Spock suddenly found himself bathed in heat as his Captain flung an arm across his back and pulled him tight against his side. “Better?”

Carefully averting his gaze to hide his embarrassment, he nodded. _It is enough this way_ , he thought, _more than I would ever think to ask for_.

“ _Shaya tonat_.”

 

* * *

 

 

When the show finished and they got out of the theatre, the sun had come out of the fading layer of clouds in time to set; orange-golden rays painted with light the raindrops scattered everywhere, adding a bright, ethereal sheen to the windows, the colourful walls of the skyscrapers, the pitch-black roads, the passing-by cars, the mismatched umbrellas. It was a scenery straight-out of a picture.

“Oh, right, now it stops with the thunderstorm,” muttered Jim, looking up at the sky with a mutinous expression. Then he turned towards his silent companion, breaking into his signature smile: “So what do you wanna do on our last evening?”

“I am open to suggestions,” Spock assured him, pulling his jacket around himself and burrowing his nose inside his scarf, “As long as it involves staying in an enclosed, heated space.”

The human decided he wanted to try Italian food, and they ended up in a Pizzeria, perched upon a high bench exchanging thoughts on chess moves. Jim laughed with genuine, unsuppressed mirth when the Vulcan insisted upon eating his vegetarian pizza with a knife and fork, and saved him from sugar intoxication by snatching away his bottled tea before he could even take a whiff of it. “That’s not what you think it is,” he threatened, gulping it down with gusto under Spock’s incredulous gaze, “It’s full of shit I don’t even wanna mention; read the ingredients if you dare.”

The scientist’s eyes widened slightly and he nodded slowly, probably wondering however humans managed to survive long enough to even _reach_ the twenty-third Century. “Indeed.”

A short silence ensued, one during which Jim succeeded in swallowing two slices of pizza in three bites; at that point, Spock felt it only merciful to graciously offer him what was left of his own, because he had discovered Italian food to be quite agreeable and wished to share. “Did you enjoy yourself this week, Jim?” he asked after a while, looking up at his Captain from behind his glass of water.

Kirk thought about his answer for a while: this leave had been an entirely new and unique experience for him -there had been no trouble, he had angered no alien nor had he bed one, he hadn’t gotten in any fights, he hadn’t even gone around seeking an adrenalin rush… And yet. “I… did. Yes, I did. You?”

A hint of tension seemed to leave the Vulcan’s shoulders, and his lips curved the tiniest bit. “Very much so, Jim.” Spock’s eyes did that thing, then, that soft, melting kind of thing, and Jim was abruptly torn between heart and reason, between just throwing himself at his friend or getting the hell out of that place and away from those gentle eyes making beautiful promises that couldn’t be kept. He hid his worry well behind a wide grin.

_Please, Spock… It’s so easy between us. Don’t you go and make it all complicated. Please._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you liked it! Also, I hate salads of any kind so I might have come up with something actually inedible. Oh well, Spock’s a Vulcan, he’ll survive. The song Jim sings in the kitchen is ‘War’ by Poets of the Fall, a very beautiful song that I totally recommend! That’s all folks! Next chapter will be ‘Drunk’, where I’ll explore the wonderful cliché of Spock getting drunk on chocolate and spilling his heart out to Jim! And I’ll throw some Bones and Uhura as well, because I love them and the two idiots need someone to talk some sense into them from time to time.
> 
> LLAP!


	8. Drunk

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Spock. How are you feeling?”
> 
> “Jim!” Overly bright brown eyes widened upon seeing him, full of urgency and uncertainty and hope, and Kirk suddenly wanted to slap himself, possibly hard. “Are you still my friend?” Spock asked, reaching out as if to touch him but then appearing to think better of it; instead he wrapped both arms around his own chest, pulling at his uniform somewhat anxiously.
> 
> Jim took the half-emptied cup away from the alien, attempting to buy himself time. “That’s enough chocolate, okay?”
> 
> “Okay, Jim, if it please you -anything if it please you,” the Vulcan declared earnestly, shifting closer to the human, as close as he dared. “Does this mean you want to be my friend again?” he insisted.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi, y'all!   
> This is THE chapter! Get ready for some Spirk feels!

**_8_ **

**_Drunk_ **

 

It all went downhill after shore leave ended, and for no apparent reason.

Spock sat in Nyota’s quarters, listening half-heartedly while she rehearsed some multilanguage songs, and he let her soft, rich voice envelop him as he contemplated his current predicament with a feeling akin to bleakness crashing against his tight control. It had been eight days since he had last spent free time in Jim’s company, and five since they had shared a meal; it appeared the human had suddenly decided to avoid him, though why, the Vulcan couldn’t fathom -and he refused to ask, as a matter of principle: he would respect Kirk’s decision to resume an entirely professional and detached relationship, no matter the cost. Exactly seventeen days, six hours, fifteen minutes and forty-three seconds before, Spock had joined him to play chess; the young man had been shifty and distracted for the whole duration of the game, and at the Vulcan’s concerned inquiry he had insisted he was fine when he most certainly was not. Since then, the Captain had grown increasingly uncomfortable around him, to the point where the scientist had simply admitted defeat and removed himself altogether from his company.

He had no idea what had prompted such behaviour from Kirk, but he was quite convinced it must have been his fault -he _must_ have done something to embarrass or offend him during shore leave, it was the only possible explanation, humans were so easy to upset. He had also considered apologising but he wasn’t entirely sure what to apologise for.

Spock felt bereft, forced away from his t’hy’la, and he _did not understand_ … He had acted almost human around him, relinquishing his Vulcan mores for his sake, to make sure he was at ease, he had shown him a side of himself -that hidden, shameful part that cherished and protected emotions which he had rarely even shown to his own _mother_ \- had this unsettled him? Had it been too much, too different? But his t’hy’la… his t’hy’la was supposed to accept him -more than just accept him, _want_ him- the way he was…

“ _A t’hy’la is someone who will understand you and stand with you no matter what.”_ Had his mother lied?

A light tap on his shoulder brought him back to full awareness of his surroundings, and the First Officer raised his eyes to meet the all-too-knowing gaze of his former girlfriend. Uhura cocked her head to the side and chose not to ask him about his thoughts or his late propensity for distraction, smiling instead: “You should play at the next party. It’s still more than a month away and you totally have the time to rehearse.”

The Vulcan’s face closed off almost instantly, and a chill ran down his spine: “That shall never happen,” he said curtly.

The human sat down by his side on the soft sofa that occupied her quarters, turning off the volume of the music and crossing her legs, ebony hair cascading down her back. “Why not? You’re so good at it. It’s a shame you gave it up.”

Spock shifted away from her, further retreating behind his unemotional façade, and stated quietly but with finality: “I shall never play again, Nyota. Please stop insisting.”

She sighed and nodded good-naturedly, resting a warm hand against his arm. “If that’s your wish, sweetheart.”

The Vulcan took a sip of his herbal tea and raised an eyebrow at her, stiffening slightly: “I have no need for emotional reassurance, Nyota.” He set the mug on the small transparent table she used mostly to store the old CDs Kirk insisted on buying her for every holyday and for her birthdays, claiming she had to start a collection. Standing abruptly, the scientist took a few steps around the dimly lit room, hands carefully folded behind his back and eyes fixed on the pale ceiling. “It is not necessary for you to take the trouble of comforting me.”

Uhura smiled patiently at him. “I wouldn’t call it trouble, Spock, but whatever makes you feel better is fine, I guess.” When he did not reply, she got up as well and walked towards him, tilting her head up to look him in the face; he had the appearance of a statue carved in ice. “Vulcan tradition will be the death of you, I tell you.”

Spock shrugged infinitesimally, unwilling to discuss her last statement. “You are as in tune as ever -I do not think you shall be needing my assistance anymore today?”

Nyota pursed her lips, evidently unhappy with him. “You stubborn fool,” she muttered under her breath, then collected herself and looked back up at her friend and colleague, searching for a way to put into words what she had in mind. “You are miserable, don’t deny it.”

“I have no intention of doing so.” The Vulcan turned his back on her, cold and detached and severe. “I fail to see the purpose of stating that which is obvious. My t’hy’la refuses to see me -such refusal is not easy upon the mind.”

“You should talk to Jim,” she said just as sternly, “Demand an explanation.”

“I do not wish to pry-”

“If you won’t work up the nerve to do it yourself, then I will!” Nyota’s eyes flashed, and she pointed at him in a quick, infuriated motion, “It’s unbelievable the way you are willing to let others decide about your future -your father, T’Pau, the colony, now Kirk! Won’t you stand up for yourself, just for this once?”

He remained maddeningly still, even though his eyes did soften and his mouth lost that harsh line that had made his lips paler: “From a Vulcan point of view you are telling a falsehood. Do not speak of that which you do not understand.”

“Then help me understand.”

“I cannot. Please do forgive me for causing you distress,” Spock bowed his head a little. “It is true, however, that it is not obligatory of you to be upset on my behalf.”

She laughed gently at that, shook her head. “That’s called empathy and caring, Spock. It’s part of being human and I’m sure you know it all too well.”

“I might.” He fell silent, seemingly unable or unwilling to elaborate; his uncaring expression slowly became to morph into one of private, placid sadness that made Uhura’s heart break a little: “I have wronged him, yet I am uncertain as to how.”

Nyota sighed again, this time heavily, and squeezed him into a hug which he did not return. “ _K’shatrisu, ha’kel t’du wilat_?” She whispered in his ear, listening to his even, deep breathing. _Foreigner, where is your home?_

“ _Fam fai-tor nash-veh_ ,” he quietly responded, pressing his face into her shoulder, much as he had done years before, when his mother had died. “I do not know, and for this reason I grieve.” He pulled away from the contact after three point seven minutes, regarding her with gratitude and affection, “But I thank thee for thy help.”

Uhura nodded. “Come to the party tonight?” she asked, sitting back down on the sofa. He saw her run her hands through her hair to brush it, then start to braid it with care. “Kirk will be there. Find him, make him tell you what the hell’s going on with him.”

The Vulcan settled by her side, and very gingerly inched his fingers close to her half-formed hairdo. “Allow me to help you, Nyota,” he offered, hoping both to distract her from her purpose and to be granted the chance to repay her for her kindness. She seemed to sense this, because she dropped her hands into her lap and let him do as he pleased, and for a while they were quiet, each lost in their own thoughts. Funnily enough, they had never been as close and comfortable around each other, their relationship now more one of brotherhood and complicity than the awkward, tentative courtship of before.

“I am finished.”

Long fingers with beautifully painted nails traced the shape of a perfectly woven braid, and Uhura smiled her lovely smile, pleased and intrigued. “It’s great. Where did you learn to do this?”

Spock drank what was left of his tea in short sips, allowing some of the tension to ease away from his shoulders, and leaned against the back of the couch. “Once, when I was six point eleven years old, my mother was hurt, and thus I helped her with many similar tasks,” he calmly explained, chasing the memory around his mind with that bittersweet combination of love, regret and nostalgia he had come to associate with his mother. “I admit at first the results were much less than optimal, but eventually I became very apt.”

A chiming laughter filled the room as Nyota got up, walking to stand in front of a mirror to admire his work. “That’s cute, Spock,” she declared lively, brushing her hands down the raven braid somewhat wistfully.

“Do you have… a date?” the Vulcan wondered aloud, curious as to what had compelled her to abandon the high ponytail she had seemed to favour so much. Dark, almost-black eyes met his, and the human gestured for him to join her as she dialled the doors open.

“Not really,” she said, “I just felt like I wanted a change, you know?”

Spock did not know, but he followed her into the corridor nonetheless.

* * *

 

The day immediately after shore leave ends, Spock finds Jim in the laboratories, cheerfully discussing a report with one of his best scientists, a young girl with a brilliant mind the Vulcan has had the honour of seeing and helping grow; after making entirely sure everything is in order, the First Officer strides evenly towards his Captain, quite eager to hear his opinion on the promising Lieutenant and make sure he is satisfied with the progress they have made so far. He is inspecting his own Padd, fingers dancing deftly across the screen as he traces the components of a complicated equation, and therefore he doesn’t notice in the beginning the way Kirk’s eyes shift restlessly away from him, in a rather obvious display of the human state of unease. He does notice, however, when he raises his gaze to look at him, and his greeting is momentarily derailed -by point zero-zero-seven seconds, far too little a time for such a slip to be evident to any other but himself- because of the expression he sees on Jim’s face.

Nervousness. Faint accusation. A hint of regret, pain even. The shadow of something dark hidden just behind the surface. Wariness, like one waiting for some tragedy to unfold. All in all, a mixture of negative emotions he has never thought he would -never wished to- elicit in his friend.

Faking ignorance, as per usual, in the matter of human feelings and sensitivity, the Vulcan nods respectfully at his Captain, addresses him formally but with that lightest trace of fondness he is unable to quite suppress from his tone, invites him to stay. Kirk still does not meet his eyes and politely -hastily, as if he wants nothing but to flee- excuses himself, claiming he is required in engineering and running late; Spock allows a flicker of concern to taint his otherwise serene expression, and raises an eyebrow in question, suddenly illogically hyper-aware of the Lieutenant’s presence next to them, between them, a witness to what his mind seems to view as a rejection.

He expects Jim to smile or tease in the face of that which he will undoubtedly perceive as an emotional slip on the Vulcan’s part; he does neither, instead becoming even more cautious than before, and with a rushed farewell he turns and he is gone. Spock wonders at this most unusual behaviour, but lets it slide: he shall talk to this Captain at a later moment, and he will surely provide a satisfactory explanation.

The next time Spock has the chance to have an even remotely gratifying conversation with Jim, they are on the bridge again, regrouping after the umpteenth mission has gone awry and they have managed to save the ship at the last possible moment; as Kirk has graciously pointed out, _the usual business_ , and no, the Vulcan definitely refuses to believe that _the universe is plotting against us or something_. He approaches the human as soon as he deems it safe to leave his post, and leans ever-so-slightly against his chair, waiting for him to catch his glance and hold it, wanting to share the relief he will calmly deny at having survived once more. But when his Captain raises his ocean-blue eyes to look at him, they are sealed off, his jaw is set, the line of his mouth stern. He is… afraid?

_Of me?_

_How?_

“May I be of any assistance to you, sir?” The question comes unbidden and undeniably unfiltered, a direct consequence of his instinct reacting to his t’hy’la’s most evident distress with the honest, bare, complete offer of himself.

Jim’s mouth pops open in surprise, but he shakes his head firmly as if bracing in front of some unknown danger: “No, no, Spock, it’s fine, you… uh… did an awesome job back there. You can return to your post. Thanks.”

The Executive Officer blinks twice, the only outward sign that his Captain’s words have affected him at all; yet inward, away from the crew’s prying eyes, his mind is cringing, stubbornly fighting the situation as that ruthless, warrior part of his nature -both a gift and a curse of ancient times, the source of the strength running in his blood- threatens to resurface, desperate to stake a claim upon the human who lately seems so intent in escaping him. _Enough_ , he growls, using freezing control to water the flames of his passion, _enough_.

“Then, perhaps, you would care for a game of chess?” he suggests, carefully folding his hands behind his back, fingers clenched tightly together to avoid even the tiniest unnecessary motion. “It is precisely ten point fifteen minutes until the end of the shift, and we are both free.”

“Uhm. Yeah. Chess.” Again, Jim is clearly ill at ease: the whole plethora of gestures and twitches and subtle changes in tone of voice is entirely unfamiliar and misplaced. “But not now, maybe… maybe this evening? Later, if there’s time. I’m… kinda needed somewhere else?” He waves his hand somewhat carelessly, and Spock has no option but to retreat, forcing down the urge that begs him to rage against that affront, and the more rational -but only slightly so- sliver of hurt that starts to weave itself across his mind. Nothing is shown on his face, of course, but he does steal a glance at Nyota, in the hope she might have some useful insight on the matter; but she appears every bit as confused as he feels, so he turns around and devotes most of his concentration on his instruments. Most of it.

The last time Spock attempts to speak to his Captain outside of what can strictly be considered a working environment, Jim is sitting alone in Conference Room I and the Vulcan has chosen to linger, seeking some sort of explanation, wishing to know why for nine entire days the human has treated him like a stranger. He stands stiffly by the door, never lowering his eyes from Kirk’s golden head -for he is evidently refusing to even look at him.

_What have I done to warrant such punishment? Such distance?_

“You are distressed,” he states. Because he is Vulcan, his voice does not waver, it does not betray the depth of the pain eating at his soul, clawing its way up his throat as if it would ever be allowed to rage free. “I apologise for fighting your decision, earlier. It did not appear to me as entirely logical, but now I see its merits. I was wrong.”

Finally, Kirk wrenches his gaze away from the Padd he has been pretending to be reading from and stares at him for a fleeting second. Piercing blue eyes meet earnest brown ones and Spock feels -really feels- exposed, as if all of his truths were laid bare for that human to see, his t’hy’la, but then Jim looks away and shrugs. “I appreciate it,” he says, and it sounds flat and cold and not what it should be -what happened to _we make a great team_ and _what would I do without you?_

“You understand, of course, that I would stand by you regardless.” Spock adds then, wanting to make this point as clear as possible, wanting his Captain to understand.

He seems saddened, dissatisfied. _Why?_ “I know.” It is… so hollow, there is no more warmth between them, only distance and secrets untold. _How have I wronged you?_

“I know, Spock.”

_Then do not send me away._

“You are an excellent officer.”

 _This is all? Jim?_ “Thank you, sir. However, I did not speak as such.”

_Surely you must know…?_

“I know, Spock. I know.” He sighs, tired and deep, and suddenly the Vulcan realises that this is what worries the human so much, this is what has him displeased and detached and on edge.

His expression hardens infinitesimally as he fights to collect himself, to contain the damage that realisation is wreaking in his mind, the tiny voice pleading for his t’hy’la to forgive, for his t’hy’la to take him back. “Forgive me. That was uncalled for,” he mutters.

_Let me stay. Jim? Will you help me see?_

Kirk stands, then, walks past him. “There is nothing to forgive,” he whispers, and leaves, not expecting his second to follow.

And Spock… doesn’t.

* * *

 

“Jim, just… sit down and listen, will you?” McCoy was leaning against his desk in his perfectly organised, almost maniacally clean office, glaring down at his Captain with a stern expression. The young man wore a defiant, slap-me-in-the-face expression, but made no attempt to escape.

“I had lunch with Uhura today,” the Doctor began, ignoring his friend’s interruption of “Cool, what’s that got to do with me, and can I leave?”

“Funnily enough, she seems to think you are being an asshole with the goblin.” Bones raised an eyebrow and crossed his arms stiffly, voice low and menacing. “And she’s gonna make you suffer if you keep at it.”

Any pretence at indifference washed away from Kirk’s face as he set his jaw and returned Leonard’s hard stare with an earnest, displeased look: “Great. Great. Now it’s not just Spock I have to worry about -and I’m not being an asshole, I just…” He bit on his lower lip, unsure whether to speak further or just keep his concerns to himself. McCoy shook his head, gave him his best scowl, complete with thick Southern accent: “Save your breath, please, and _can it_. Everyone on the ship noticed you’re avoiding the pointy-eared computer like the plague!” He huffed, a scornful sound he usually reserved to describe his Captain’s most famous (and irresponsible) antics. “I can’t say I blame you there, but the two of you were all buddy-buddy only a month ago.” He narrowed his eyes at him as if trying to read through him. “I mean, you might have fought or whatever during shore leave, but twenty days of silent treatment is more than enough, right? Can’t you move on and forgive him? Act like an adult for once?”

“Bones, you don’t understand…” Jim heaved a sigh wrenched out of his very soul, and suddenly dropped his head in his hands, planting his elbows on the desk; Leonard bent down to collect the few Padds and styluses that had scattered on the floor, then sent him a glance that said: _Don’t I? Try me._

“ _Fine_.” Kirk snapped, blue eyes flashing as he decided to drop the bomb: “ _Fine_. I’ll tell you.” He trailed his gaze on the linoleum ceiling, refusing to look at his friend; his voice was dark, empty. “I think he’s in love with me.”

He expected the Doctor to remain speechless, mouth open wide in silent terror, but all he got was rolling eyes and a pat on the back: “I’ve known for ages, kid. Is this the great issue that has you so worked up?” Bones laughed out loud, crossing his arms again in an attempt at maintaining some semblance of control. “Really, if it were me in your place I’d be running and screaming my head off, but you love him back, so where’s the problem?”

Jim’s hand came up with a jerk. _Wait, what?_ his aghast expression gasped. McCoy heard it just fine, and brought his fingers up to caress his temple in mock-exhaustion. “Good heavens! You can’t be serious, kid. Think about it - _think about it_ , I say. You’re in love with the hobgoblin all right.”

The Captain felt cold dread settle deep down in his stomach. “No,” he protested instinctively, twisting his fingers in a useless, nervous motion. “Yes? I don’t know!”

“You are. And I’d expect nothing less from an idiot like you. Falling for a Vulcan, now that’s a joy ride!” Kirk still looked as if he wanted to fight the truth, so the Doctor added slyly: “You don’t believe me? Answer this: when was the last time you had casual sex? Hells, when was the last time you even hit on someone and _meant it_?”

The young man shut his mouth and paled.

“See? Jee, for someone so bright you sure are _dumb_!”

Jim shook his head wildly. “No. _No_. Bones, you don’t understand,” he repeated in an agonizing whisper, “I don’t -I _can’t_ fall in love. It’s… it’s _wrong_ , I won’t allow… It’s a mistake.”

“You’re flogging a dead horse, Jim. It’s a little late for _not falling_ , don’t you think?” Leonard moved to stand behind his friend, grasping his shoulders in a firm grip; Kirk threw his head back to stare at him, begging for help. “Get your act together!” the CMO hissed, “This avoiding thing you’ve got going isn’t gonna work -you’ll just ruin your friendship and end up with a resentful, bitter, _wounded_ First Officer in tow!”

Another wretched sigh escaped the Captain, but he didn’t reply past the miserable murmur of “I know, Bones, I know.”

“Then what’s keeping you here? You need to get over this fear of commitment you have!” When a shadow descended upon Jim’s face, McCoy stilled and bit his lip: “But that’s not the problem, am I right? There’s more to it than just… this.”

Kirk nodded tiredly. “I don’t wanna talk about it.”

This time, Leonard brushed a hand through his unruly hair, in a gentle, comforting manner that was rare as Spock’s laughter. “Oh, you don’t have to. I understand. And if you want my opinion… You should move on.” The Doctor knew well how to dance around the subject without openly discussing it: he’d perfected the art after years of friendship, ever since a young, drunk Jim had spilled his guts about Tarsus while clutching a bowl full of vomit to his chest; he was now quite certain he understood most of Kirk’s issues and where they stemmed from; he was aware of how damaged his conception of love and trust had been during those months of hell. “It’s about time you leave the past behind you and stop carrying it around like some sort of ball and chain -you deserve your present…”

The Captain jumped up to his feet and turned his back on him in a sharp gesture of frustration. “Cut it, Bones, please. You saying this won’t change how I see the world.”

Leonard spread his arms wide, acknowledging defeat. “Alright, but listen. You love Spock, right? You _care_ for him.” He waited until Jim had nodded before continuing: “Would you ever hurt him willingly? Would you ever cause him to suffer the way you did? Betray him, stab him in the back, sacrifice him to save yourself? Because that’s the thing.”

Kirk seemed ready to explode: “Of course I wouldn’t, and that’s precisely why I don’t want to get involved in a relationship -too much could go wrong, and then…”

McCoy stopped him with a finger in front of his face: “No, the question is another: would you trust _Spock_ to do the same for _you_?”

* * *

 

Spock did not even care to remember what the party was about -he was simply grateful for the four chocolate soufflés he’d found and eaten, because such heavenly taste he had never dreamed could exist; he sat in a corner of the crammed, noisy Rec Room, directly by one replicator he had taken possession of, nursing his sixth -or was it his seventh?- mugful of hot chocolate as he contemplated with detached fascination the way his shields were lowering more and more as the evening progressed. He was… so lonely. So lonely, in fact, that when Doctor McCoy flopped down into a chair by his side, he actually turned towards him and smiled in welcome. “Leonard. Were you pleased with your visit to your daughter?” he inquired, truly captivated by his own eyesight, which appeared to be blurring considerably.

The human frowned deeply at him, worried for whatever illogical reason of his, but answered nonetheless: “Oh, yeah. Yeah, it was great.” A small smile graced his features as he reminisced.

The Vulcan’s thought process took a 180° turn at that, and the light, almost giddy feeling that had taken possession of his faculties vanished completely, suddenly replaced by a harsh, unexpected wave of sadness. “Does she ever tell you she loves you?” he murmured, shivering slightly. To hide his discomfort, he gulped down the rest of his chocolate and promptly replicated himself another.

Leonard gave him a funny look, raising an eyebrow at his mentioning an emotion as strong and powerful as love. “Of course she does, all the time.”

A pang of sharp guilt stabbed Spock, and his mind unhelpfully evoked the image of his mother; he drank a little more. “Are you… content with that?”

The human turned in his chair to face him, perhaps examining his dishevelled, confused state for the first time that evening. “Well what do you think? I couldn’t be happier, and - _what are you drinking_?”

Ignoring his question, the Science Officer lowered his gaze to his own hands wrapped around the mug and breathed, soft and miserable: “I never told mother I love her. I never did. Now she’s gone and I cannot.” He curled in on himself, and didn’t even flinch when McCoy extended one hand to press it against his back.

“I’m sure she knew,” he offered gently, while simultaneously trying to take his drink away from him. The Vulcan resisted, holding on stubbornly to his cup, and kept talking quietly to himself, not really noticing his interlocutor. “Yes, but was that sufficient? To simply guess, to never really know? I failed her.” He swallowed hard. “I am a failure.”

Bones sighed and tapped his wrist sternly. “I think you had enough chocolate for the evening.”

Spock shook his head firmly and took another sip, gaze wandering to where his Captain was dancing with young Nurse Chapel, McCoy’s protégée. “Jim doesn’t want me anymore,” he stated in a small voice, “Why doesn’t he want me anymore? Why would he want anyone but me?”

“I’m not payed to deal with this,” Leonard growled under his breath. “Jim is an idiot, and, Spock, you should quit the chocolate. You’re intoxicated.”

The Vulcan paid him no mind: he had closed his eyes shut and was visibly trembling as he continued his drunken musings: “Nobody wants me. _Vulcan_ didn’t want me. _T’Pring_ didn’t want me. _The VSA_ didn’t want me. _T’Pau_ didn’t want me. _Nyota_ didn’t want me. Now _Jim_ doesn’t want me either. There must be something wrong with me.” His expression brightened abruptly, and he focused his attention entirely on McCoy, talking fast and with an air of great engrossment: “Do you know what that is, doctor? Can you perhaps fix me?” He looked hopeful.

Just as McCoy was puzzling over a tactful answer that would also convince his would-be patient to let go of the chocolate, Kirk swooped in on him, resting both elbows on his shoulders and calling a cheerful: “Hey, Bones, what’s up?”

Spock’s head shot up immediately and he smiled, happy and honest, at his Captain: “Oh, Jim! You’re here!” he cried, in a moment of unshielded joy; then his shoulders slumped and he resumed his miserable slouch, looking down at his mug as if it contained the answers to all of his problems. “But you’re here for the Doctor, not for me,” he whispered brokenly.

“A word, Jim.” Leonard all but snarled, pushing his friend away from the Vulcan to talk to him in private. “You’re a fucking idiot.”

Jim wasn’t listening. “What’s wrong with Spock?” he demanded, staring as his second in command brought both hands to his head to wrap pale fingers around ebony hair.

“You, that’s what!” McCoy’s gaze was somewhere between furious and murderous as he jabbed the golden shirt with his index finger.

“Me? C’mon, Bones, be serious.” Kirk huffed and crossed his arms: “Just give him something. He’s clearly drunk.”

“I’m dead serious, kid. Look at him, he’s miserable.” The Doctor was wearing that particular expression that made him look like one who had suffered too much and yet was still willing to undergo more. “ _You_ made him miserable,” he clarified, for good measure, “So go on and _fix it_ before he embarrasses himself in front of the whole damn crew.”

Jim was torn -he didn’t feel ready to face Spock, not at all. He still needed to think about his position, to decide if he trusted himself and his First enough to risk everything for the sake of love. “Bones, you know why…”

“You’re making the biggest mistake of your life.” McCoy warned him tightly, “At least give the hobgoblin a chance.”

“It’s not worth…”

“ _Spock_ ’s not worth it? Do you really think so? Jim, Vulcans _never_ give up their mates. They live and _die_ for them. What the hell are you afraid of?” Leonard grabbed his shoulders to steady him as he shifted restlessly, and glared deeply into his eyes. “You’re treating him like shit and you’re above that.”

Jim yielded then, and went to sit next to the Vulcan, who was now busy evaluating the merits of dipping a finger into his ninth mug of scorching hot chocolate. Heaving a sigh, the human brushed his hand across his forearm and murmured gently: “Spock. How are you feeling?”

“Jim!” Overly bright brown eyes widened upon seeing him, full of urgency and uncertainty and hope, and Kirk suddenly wanted to slap himself, possibly hard. “Are you still my friend?” Spock asked, reaching out as if to touch him but then appearing to think better of it; instead he wrapped both arms around his own chest, pulling at his uniform somewhat anxiously.

Jim took the half-emptied cup away from the alien, attempting to buy himself time. “That’s enough chocolate, okay?”

“Okay, Jim, if it please you -anything if it please you,” the Vulcan declared earnestly, shifting closer to the human, as close as he dared. “Does this mean you want to be my friend again?” he insisted.

Kirk gaped at the intensity with which those words were spoken, and he realised just how much he had missed Spock in the past few weeks of doing his best to distance him, how much he had missed that marvellous complicity they shared, the way they reasoned together, hell, they even finished each other’s sentences, how fucked up was that? _Can I do this?_ he wondered, _can I really do this?_ Well, he surely had to apologise. “I, uh, yes, sorry about…”

Picking up on the ‘yes’ part immediately, the Science Officer smiled again, relief bringing a rush of green to dust his cheeks as emotion took over: “Then I am forgiven?”

Jim’s eyes went wide. “Forgiven? What?”

“I do not know,” Spock admitted sheepishly, “But I _must_ have angered you somehow. I’m sorry, please forgive me.” He seemed to be desperate, and this time he _did_ touch him -he grasped both his hands in his own and squeezed gingerly.

“No, Spock!” Jim blurted out hurriedly, “It’s not you, you did nothing wrong, it’s… uh. Me.” _Gosh, don’t I sound like your average teenager?_

The Vulcan shook his head vehemently: “You? How could it be you?” He moved so now his fingers were against the side of the human’s face, chilly but terribly tender: “You have a beautiful mind -a mind of gold. It cannot be you. It’s obviously me, I am all wrong…”

In his effort at leaning even closer to his friend, Spock almost slid down from his chair and all the way to the floor; Kirk placed both hands around his waist instinctually, forcing him up and supporting his weight as he staggered. “All right,” he groaned, coaxing the scientist into holding on to his neck when they finally managed to stand, albeit wobbling a little. “All right, come on, I’m taking you to my quarters.” He figured that in his state, his second in command would be hard pressed to remember his own code of access. The Vulcan chuckled softly, leaning against his side as if he wanted nothing but. “Oh, yes!” he approved, nodding enthusiastically, “That’s absolutely agreeable!”

His breath smelled very strongly of chocolate -not that Jim minded, really- and he weighted a _ton_. “Well, let’s go, then,” he mumbled, already out of breath, trying to successfully tug his friend away from the replicator and into the deserted corridor.

* * *

 

It quickly turned out that taking Spock to his quarters hadn’t exactly been the best of his ideas. Jim ordered the lights on and staggered towards the bed, pushing the scientist down into a sitting position as he contemplated his next move -what was he supposed to do with an intoxicated, overemotional, clingy Vulcan? He absentmindedly stroked his head -such soft, velvety hair- willing him to calm down some.

Spock captured his hand in his own, employing enough strength that Kirk felt his bones creak, and smiled seductively at him. “Are you going to take advantage of me, now, Jim?”

Nothing had quite prepared the Starship Captain for _this_. His mouth popped open and he stared uncomprehendingly at his friend, gasping out a whisper of _What?_ when the Vulcan dragged him effortlessly closer. “Please take advantage of me, Jim,” he begged, holding him still with one hand and bringing the other to brush his cheek and temple. His chocolate coloured eyes were warm and welcoming, shining with a combination of love, lust and fear, and that weird, unnatural smile still curved his sinful lips -so tempting.

“Take advantage of…” Kirk echoed, as some sense finally clicked into place in his brain.  “No! _Never_!” he protested, perhaps more passionately than he intended; Spock instantly recoiled, letting go of him as hurt played all over his fine features. “Oh,” he murmured, voice tinted with burning shame, “Forgive me.”

Jim worked his stiff fingers open and closed in rapid succession, wincing when his tendons protested the harsh treatment they had been subjected to. “Listen, Spock,” he said reasonably, trying to be tactful and mature, “You’re drunk. Let me get you some water and then you can sleep. We’ll talk in the morning, okay?” Giving him a gentle pat on his shoulder, the human left for the bathroom to fetch some hangover remedies he always kept within reach; he filled a glass at the sink and stopped for a few moments to stare at his reflection -eyes too wide and cheeks burning, mouth pressed into a hard line, the picture of conflict. _Get yourself together_ , he thought severely, _this is Spock. And you’re not a coward._

When he approached him again, the Vulcan was kneeling on the floor, arms folded on the bed and head hidden in his arms. He was shaking. “Jim…” he murmured, “Why don’t you want me?” Kirk sat by his side and, totally incapable of helping himself, he let his fingers dance through the dark hair. Spock shifted so he could look at him -he was in tears, not precisely crying, but almost there. “Is it because I am too Vulcan? I can be human -I can be human for you if that’s what you want…”

“Spock, _no_ …”

“Then I am too human? I can be perfectly Vulcan!” He stared at Jim beseechingly, swaying on the spot, face pressed desperately into the human’s proffered palm. “Please…”

“You must be really out of it if you’re saying something like that,” Kirk muttered, throwing an arm across his shoulders to steady him. “Poor Spock,” he sighed, “I’ve been a total jerk and a moron with you. I’m sorry. I’m so very sorry. You don’t have to doubt yourself for me.”

The Vulcan turned halfway against him, resting his head against his chest, just below his collarbone, and clutched at his golden shirt as if he was afraid he would vanish as soon as he let go. He was quiet for a while, seemingly absorbing the human’s warmth and basking in their contact, and the Captain pulled him even closer, feeling that sense of familiarity and rightness return at full speed, as powerful as a blow to the stomach and as sweet as honey.

“Jim…” Spock whined suddenly, closing his eyes and swallowing hard, “Jim, the room is spinning at the velocity of- of…”

“Hush, now, baby,” Jim cajoled, caressing his back soothingly. “It’s normal. It will stop in a while. Just be patient.”

The First Officer started to move away, clearly uncomfortable: “No, Jim, I feel… I feel _nauseous_ …” he complained, “There is a definite probalibity- _probability_ that I will…” He fell quiet, frowning as Kirk jumped up to his feet and started dragging him -carrying him almost- towards the facilities. “That’s normal too, if unpleasant!” he said, shoving the Vulcan through the door and on the floor in front of the toilet. “Just let it out, Spock, you’ll feel better afterwards.”

“You are lying to me,” Spock wailed miserably, coughing violently. Jim grasped both his clammy hands to still him some, and supported him. “Why… are you lying… to me?”

The human sighed, silently cursing his friend’s telepathy. “Alright, you’re going to feel even more like shit afterwards, but you can’t exactly help it, now, can you?” He patted his back, rocking a little in an attempt at comfort. “You’re the one who went through eight cups of hot chocolate!”

“And… four… soufflés…” the Vulcan admitted, heaving panting breaths as the retching subsided. Jim stretched across him to tear off a pair of tissues; he handed them to Spock so he could wipe his mouth, then gingerly helped him up to his feet and back on the bed.

“Here,” he murmured, dropping a pill into the glass where it dissolved and handing him the remedy, “Drink this and then off to sleep.” He gently wiped out the tears from his friend’s face, marvelling at the crystal-clear drops wetting his fingers: “Never thought I’d see a Vulcan cry once, let alone twice.” A grimace crossed his face as a wave of self-consciousness passed through him, “And both times because of me. I’m sorry, baby.”

Spock sent him a weird look, emptying the glass in one long gulp, and said bleakly: “Vulcans do not cry.” Before Jim could object, he leaned into him, resting his chin into his shoulder, and added: “My eyes are human, see? Only I can cry. It is… a human weakness of mine.” He smiled ruefully, and his hands searched for the Captain’s; Jim squeezed his fingers, momentarily forgetting the meaning behind the gesture, and found them to be cold, too cold, so he brought them closer, against his chest. He was rewarded with the most blissed expression he’d ever seen on a Vulcan, and he was absolutely incapable of keeping himself from beaming at him. “When I was little, everyone was very… interested… in my eyes,” the scientist continued, quite out of the blue.

“I can see why.” Kirk chuckled. He was starting to grow accustomed to the feel of strong, cool arms wrapped around his torso, but he was still determined to get his friend -more than friend?- off himself and under the blankets.                            

“You can?” The brown eyes in question peered at him innocently, and the human swore he was about to melt: “Your eyes are actually quite nice, you know?”

“Oh. That is a compliment.” Thoroughly distracted by the realisation, the Vulcan allowed Jim to slip away from his loosened grasp, and watched him in amazement as he opened a closet and threw him a pair of pyjamas. “C’mon, put these on and go to sleep, or you’ll wake up wishing you were dead.”

“That is… unlikely,” Spock buried his nose inside the clothes and breathed deeply -which was hot, but Kirk resolutely pushed the thought out of his mind- then he started undressing just like that, without a warning. Peeling his eyes away from the sight by sheer willpower, the Captain turned his back on him, silently listing all the reasons why he was _not_ to jump his First Officer then and there.

He did jump out of his skin, though, when suddenly said Officer wrapped his lithe body around him. He barely caught himself a second before his instinct kicked in and he could land a blow on his face. “Sneaky Vulcan! Don’t you _ever_ do that again!”

Spock placed both hands on his shoulders and regarded him seriously -so gravely it was ridiculous. “Jim. I cannot sleep at the present time,” he declared, “My shift is only… only…” He faltered, trying to get his internal clock to work properly, “Minutes away? Minutes away. I must go.”

Kirk shot him an incredulous look, steering him towards the bed once again. “Yeah, right, while you’re at it, grab a pillow and we can have a pyjama party on the bridge.” A little push was all it took to have the Vulcan falling backwards in a rather delicious heap, and the human chuckled softly. His second in command rearranged himself into a sitting position with some difficulty, eyes wide and confused: “But Jim, I am perfectly functional. My shift…”

“Spock, you’re wearing my pyjamas. That’s _sleepwear_. For, you know, sleeping in it.” He held up the covers but Spock still refused to slide in. “I’ll take your shift, baby, don’t you worry.” He smiled his sweetest, most reassuring smile, and felt immediately a little dizzy when the half-Vulcan answered with a dazzling one of his own, all white teeth and blushing cheeks. “Thank you, my Jim,” he murmured, finally lying down on his back, dark hair in disarray against the pillow and eyes beckoning. “You are very kind.”

The compliment was quite undeserved, and had he really said _my Jim_? And why did it sound so _good_? And _why_ on the galaxy wasn’t Kirk freaked out by it? He sighed again and brushed an affectionate hand across his friend’s forehead; Spock caught it between his fingers and carefully moved it so they were palm to palm. A pleasant, intoxicating tingle shot up his arm, and the human swallowed hard: “What… are you doing?”

His First Officer looked up at him intently. “A kiss,” he simply said, satisfied, “I feel your mental presence.” The blush intensified, pale skin turning almost emerald. “ _Ashaya_.” 

“Uh… right. The Vulcan kiss. _Ozh’esta_.” Jim stared at their joined hands for almost a full minute before Spock hesitantly whispered: “Do you… mind?”

“No,” Kirk answered, slowly but truthfully, “I don’t. I really don’t.” He ended the contact then, leaning down to press his lips on his friend’s warm cheek -soft, satiny soft, smelling of chocolate and incense and something exotic he couldn’t quite define. “I gotta go now. _Shom-tor, sanu_.” _Rest, please_.

The Vulcan hummed contentedly and stretched like a cat, then curled up on his right side and closed his eyes. After kissing the top of his head because he was _that_ irresistible, Jim left.

* * *

 

 

Spock awoke to a pounding headache and the sounds of Kirk loitering about the room; a cold feeling of dread settled over him as he recalled what exactly had transpired the previous night, and he sat upright perhaps a little too fast, for his vision blurred and a new wave of nausea rushed through him. As he effortlessly pushed it away, Jim approached him cheerfully, holding a glass full of a greenish substance in one hand and a pair of Hypos in the other.

“Morning!” he greeted, “Feeling like shit, I bet?” With a grin and a wink, he set the beverage on the bedside table and moved to sit by his side. “Here, this will make it better.”

Even as he tilted his head to the left to allow the human to administer both Hypos, the Vulcan started to apologise: “Jim, do forgive my behaviour. It was unbecoming -I should never have addressed you in such a manner…” He trailed off when Kirk placed the drink -and its dubious content- directly under his nose. “Save it,” he ordered, “I’ve been to see Bones and he felt magnanimous enough to prepare his special hangover remedy for you. He made it vegetarian and all. So drink.”

As was becoming disturbingly usual, Spock found it almost impossible to deny his Captain anything; thus, he slid his fingers over the glass and decided he would ingest the liquid it contained, trusting of course that neither his t’hy’la nor Doctor McCoy would ever attempt to poison him. Willingly. There was always a margin of error to be considered, but he was prepared to dismiss it for the time being, because he was in dire need of a few seconds -five point eleven to be precise, and the Vulcan always endeavoured to be precise- to compose a perfectly serene façade which could fool even this particular human into believing he was devoid of feeling.

For, quite obviously, after the disastrous outcome his lessening of boundaries and composure during shore leave had brought, he was not eager to exacerbate his situation by callously repeating a behaviour that had so evidently unsettled his friend. Something in the different way he had acted while on vacation had been truly wrong to have alienated so special a creature from him, and yet, in the safety of his silence, of that corner in his mind where he kept those things he was not -was never- allowed to feel, he openly admitted that week of holidays had been one of the happiest periods of his life. It had been the first time after he had left Vulcan for Starfleet that he had experienced the illusion of home. So sweet, still so evil an illusion it had vanished the exact moment he had grasped its existence.

He was quick to dismiss the displeasing taste of the concoction Jim -no, that was not true- he, Spock, had forced upon himself, and when the cup was empty, he placed it back to where it rested before and once again faced the human, not even allowing himself to feel the shame he so wished he could feel at the reminder of how embarrassing, how offensive his conduct had been.

 _Please, take advantage of me_. He had _begged_ , he, a Vulcan, had begged for physical contact, for his Captain to – he had humiliated himself to a point where he wondered what strength it was -or was it foolishness, a curious morose incapability at restraining his wants?- that allowed him to look into Kirk’s very blue, very attractive eyes.

“After what has transpired between us in the past eighteen days I am hardly sure you still desire to call yourself my friend anymore,” he began, ignoring the human when he started to open his mouth and interrupt him. “But as my regard for you remains unchanged, I will address you as such.” He took a slightly deeper breath than he normally would, bracing himself for what was to come. He owed Jim sincerity. “There is something I must confess, and I apologise in advance if you will find it distasteful, however I ask that you listen until…”

The warm, gentle touch of Kirk’s fingers against his arm, combined with the tender, almost heart-breaking light that burned steady in his cerulean irises had him close his mouth in waiting and secret trepidation. “I _know_. Spock, I’ve known for the past three weeks, maybe even more, that’s why… why I’ve been avoiding you recently.”

“I… understand.” And as much as he wished he did not, as much as he wished this was another obscure human metaphor he could claim ignorance about, he understood, thoroughly and completely, and it was terrible and miserable and bittersweet altogether, because his instinct, his mind, his entire being called and sang and existed for the sole purpose of being by this human’s side, while his logic rationally recognised that he… could not, and he was torn, yet it had not come at all unexpected, he…

Was in pain.

“Jim, I… I never expected anything other than friendship from you,” he murmured, hating in the safety of his mental privacy how vulnerable that hesitation, that stutter made him sound, “Please do not allow an emotional weakness of mine to come between our friendship.” _T’hy’la, I need thee, do not send me away_. “I do not require of you that you reciprocate my…” _T’hy’la, I beg thee, let me, let me…_ “It need not be spoken of ever again, if you wish we can act as if it is forgotten, but…” _Let me stay_. “I… As in, you…”

This time it was Jim’s lips, hastily pressed against his cheekbones, that drove him to silence, a stunned, confused silence in which his brain screeched to a halt before starting spinning rather dazedly, and then there were fingers caressing his meld points and his jaw and his neck, and he was being pulled into a hug, and it felt like falling, except his feet were steadily planted on the floor and his arms wrapped around his precious human, hands grasping, seeking purchase… But could he really call him his?

“Jim, I…”

“Hush. Hear me out on this, okay?” Once more, blue eyes bore into his, and Kirk moved to sit on the edge of the bed, dragging him down with him, so close they were pressed side by side. Blissful warmth. “I like you very, very, very much. And I think you’re awesome, and brilliant, have a killer sense of humour and are also disturbingly hot.” Jim clenched his jaw, sighed, frowned briefly, yet otherwise he kept almost unnaturally still. “I trust you, Spock, more than anyone else one the ship, hell, more than anyone else _period_ , I figure, more than myself sometimes. You are my first and my first _choice_ …” 

And it was all good things so far, but, as the human saying put it, _there was always a but_ … Spock waited for it.

“But-” _There_ it was, his deductions were always right, “-I just don’t _do_ the whole love thing.” The Vulcan scanned his t’hy’la’s face for any sign of jest, but finding none he concluded it might be best to simply let him elaborate his point before attempting to produce a worthy response. “I don’t… do love. And I actually believe you deserve so much more than what I can give you. I guess that’s only for you to judge, so, well, this is just my opinion here…” His hand came to rest on the mattress between them, palm up: an offer; the scientist made no move to touch it, though, focusing entirely on what he was saying. “Still, if it’s me you really want, Spock, then I figure you can have me. I mean, we can try this whole… relationship stuff.” He smiled, a strange combination of victory, defeat, happiness, fear… “If you want.”

Spock cocked his head to the side and reached out to hover a finger mere millimetres or so from his palm, where he could feel the heat radiating from his skin and the faint, barely-there buzz of thoughts which he longed to know, longed to touch; he did not, fiercely resisting the urge, fighting temptation in a way that made his insides squirm. “I would not want you to engage in a loveless relationship for my sake, Jim.”

The human blinked and grabbed his hand, effectively putting an end to all his efforts. “No, don’t be ridiculous, I’ve just _said_ I want you!” The Vulcan could sense all too clearly his honesty, and the golden, bright, wondrous ocean of his mind that was so close, and he needed, oh, how he needed! Completely oblivious to his inner struggles, Jim continued in his impassioned speech, face one point three-five inches from his own, so that he could see with startling clarity every nearly invisible freckle that tinted his nose and count his lashes and lose himself to the gravity and the strength of his eyes… Intoxicating.

“I _want_ this, okay? I’m just not used to it and I’m not entirely convinced it won’t end in an ugly, painful mess, but I _want_ to try it!” Spock was absolutely enraptured, his free hand was trembling on his thigh where he was keeping it to prevent it from latching itself on the human’s psy-points all of its own accord… He resolved to increase the time he daily devoted to meditation.

“I am willing to try if it’s with you.” Jim murmured, shifting closer and closer until his breath brushed his cheek and his lips were just shy of his own. “So, do _you_ want it?” And perhaps he was not that oblivious to the torture he was subjecting him to, for his fingers were tracing the curve of his ear, driving him slowly crazy with need and _he wanted a meld_ -he carefully relegated that dangerous craving to the farthest corner of his mind, because what his t’hy’la was offering was extremely desirable but not enough, not enough.

“Jim, I… as a Vulcan, as myself, I require commitment, I require… forever.” His voice was subdued, his tone even, betraying almost nothing of the intricate tangle of feelings, instinct and reason that had taken possession of his mind. “It is part of who I am. If you cannot -if you are not willing to offer that, I must ask…”

Kirk’s gaze hardened infinitesimally, bitterness and pity chasing themselves in his eyes as he responded to the Vulcan’s request in an altogether human fashion. “Spock, forever does not exist,” he said, and Spock excused his mistake, because he was aware that Jim had never experienced the depth, the pull of a bond, the aching certainty that not even death - _not even death_ \- could bring it to an end. “I cannot promise you forever, as much as I’d love to, _it just doesn’t exist_.” And there was regret in his tone, and pain, and he was looking at him as if he had confirmed the worst of his fears; to reassure him, the half-blood brought his index and middle fingers to kiss his temple and down all the way to his chin.

“Then pretend I am employing a metaphor,” he offered, willing to walk a human’s steps, to wait as long as a human would need. “Do you understand what it means to enter a romantic relationship with one of my kind?”

Relaxation was visible in the set of Kirk’s shoulders, and he sent his First a lascivious grin, teasing him openly: “It means I get to call you _mine_.”

Spock couldn’t help it: he shivered. “Amongst other things, such as…”

A hand shot up, fingers gently pressing his lips closed. “Spock, I get it. Commitment. I know. I haven’t had a casual one-night stand in ages.” He appeared uncertain whether to be proud or frightened by the notion. Then his gaze softened some, and he smiled in earnest, sweet and affectionate: “And besides, I thought I’d told you before. I’d never take advantage of you.”

The Vulcan nodded solemnly. “Then it is well, Jim.” He tried to regain some semblance of control over his own thoughts, but then he was being kissed -a human kiss, and it was so right and so easy to respond and melt into sensation when with Nyota it had been difficult, difficult to act human, yet he found that for his t’hy’la he might be able to effortlessly… Eyes of sky burned defiantly and gloriously, Kirk was staring at him with a strange expression painted on his face: “You’re overthinking,” he stated, amused.

“Perhaps,” Spock allowed. Then, fingers entwined, he leaned towards him to claim his mouth again.

 

* * *

 

“Jim. Would you clarify something for me?”

The Starship Captain, half-asleep within the circle of his arms, shifted slightly so as to meet his questioning gaze. “Mmh?”

Green-tinted fingers traced around a rosy wrist as the Vulcan contemplated how best to phrase his enquiry. “Being drunk is a definitively unpleasant experience which I shall endeavour most decisively to avoid,” he began, ignoring his companion’s snort of mirth at the admission. “How is it possible that humans enjoy it so much as to get drunk repeatedly, even over the course of a week, or a month?”

“Aw, Spock,” Jim cooed, evidently making fun of him; he pulled himself up a little and proceeded to rake a hand through his hair, effectively messing it up. “I thought we had established this. We humans are a bunch of illogical, self-destructive idiots.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, there we go, they’re officially together! Uhm, and it’s still chapter 8, isn’t it? This is just the beginning, they have a looong way to go before their happy ending!   
> Hope you liked it, angsty Spock is one of my favourite things in the whole galaxy, I swear! Thank you all so much for your support, you are the air I breathe <3 I love you!  
> LLAP


	9. Hunger

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He was James Tiberius Kirk, youngest Captain ever and Starfleet’s Golden boy.
> 
> He was also James Tiberius Kirk, the unwanted, troublesome child left to rot on a colony because his mother couldn’t be bothered to stay more than a few weeks on earth with him, because his brother had fled and was said to be ensnared in dangerously illegal activity, because his father had died a hero’s death and abandoned the world, abandoned them, abandoned him with the Kelvin to look up to, with the phantom of Nero’s ship to shadow his every step.
> 
> Not good enough to live. Not worthy of what little food was left on Tarsus.
> 
> James Tiberius Kirk curled his mouth in a snarl and balled his hands into fists, because thirteen years before Kodos the Executioner had decided he was to die, and his caretakers -people he had trusted, loved even- had betrayed him, willing to sell him to the soldiers and be rid of one who had never truly belonged.
> 
> Yet his heart still beat and his blood still flowed and his lungs still breathed and his mind still raced and he was alive and free, free, free.
> 
> Free.
> 
> He was free.
> 
> He had to be.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is part of a three-chapter arc (there will be a few of these in the immediate future). Please, enjoy!
> 
> Also, a WARNING: this arc will deal with Tarsus; here I mention (albeit very, very, very superficially and en passant) child abuse.

**_9_ **

**_Hunger_ **

 

 

“Any attempt at communicating with the entity have failed. Hailing all frequencies, all messages ignored.”

Uhura’s melodious voice filled the bridge, tinted with a sharp edge of urgency that was the only sign something was even remotely off. Swivelling in his chair, Jim let his hard gaze fall upon her for the shortest of seconds before turning once again to survey the screen: “Well, that’s just too bad, isn’t it?” he murmured, a million calculations going on in his mind at top speed; his mouth was set in a grim line, face pale, shoulders square as he tried to think his way around the problem.

“It’s still blocking our path, sir,” Sulu growled stiffly, fingers running over his controls as he set another course. “It’s too fast.”

Kirk brought his right hand to his chin, thumb absently stroking his lower lip. _This won’t do_. A fleeting thought crossed his mind, that for all the control he was exercising on his features he could have well been called a _Vulcan_ , that the steady calm he was projecting was not _human_ , that the emptiness crowding his insides was _unnatural_ … He pushed it away. “That’s ten minutes already wasted,” he said, “Those vital supplies aren’t going to get delivered by themselves.”

And there it was, again, that almost maniacal urge to protect his crew, protect his family, pressing to reach the forefront of his brain, begging for an attention which was promptly denied in favour of maintaining his cool.

“Sir, its energy is starting to mess with our systems!” Chekov was manning Spock’s station, because it was the scientist’s day off and he was undoubtedly locked up in the labs with his faithful minions working on some super-secret powerful antidote or equally powerful (and deadly) chemical mix. If Jim missed his grounding presence and the balance it provided, he did not show it nor did he acknowledge it in any way.

The Captain chanced another glance at the umpteenth weird obstacle the universe had just had the kindness of vomiting on the Enterprise: an enormous, shape-shifting, vibrant _thing_ that seemed intent on not letting them through, and moved blindingly fast right in front of the ship whenever they shifted course. “All right, then,” he exclaimed, unwavering in the face of danger. “Evasive manoeuvres, Mister Sulu, we’ll draw a circle around here.” He carefully stood, walking towards the screen with a pensive expression and crossed arms. “It’s probably some sort of buoy and won’t mind us getting the hell away.”

Normally he would have stayed to shine some light on such a matter, unwilling to accept defeat to the point where it became dangerous -but never deadly, Jim always managed to stay just shy of deadly. Normally. He could let it slide, for once, because their mission was infinitely more important than his personal need to _boldly go_ : the small Federation colony growing on Planet Q had suffered a severe instrument failure which had resulted in a crippling loss of supplies; it appeared also there had been murders involved, and Starfleet had sent the flagship to the people’s aid - _There’s more to this than what they’re letting on_ , Kirk had thought upon receiving the orders. But he would waste no more time in getting his load of wheat and lactose to the colony, not if it meant risking lives, not if it meant risking the beginning of _another_ famine.

“Keptin! Ze thing is back at us! It is damaging our sensors…” Chekov was feeding the computers orders and equations in rapid succession, yet it was evidently to no avail: a low, disquieting buzz started to force its way through the normal sounds of the bridge, indicating a serious malfunction was about to spring.

Jim turned his focused stare on his communications officer: “Uhura, call the labs, I want Spock here _now_ ,” he commanded, tone made rich by strength and determination. “Issue a yellow alert, we’re under attack. Mister Sulu! Have phasers ready to fire! We’re getting out of here at all costs.”

* * *

 

Blissful serenity descended upon Spock as he dedicated himself _heart and soul_ , to say it with the humans, to his research, breathing in and out in the crisp, sterilized air of the laboratories; his gaze was extremely focused, arms held steady, and his hands were nearly a blur at the velocity with which they were moving; he had toned out the background noises of the living beings surrounding him and their graceless shuffling about, leaving nothing but quiet behind.

At his side was Lieutenant D’nevla, a very young Orion woman who regarded him with undisguised admiration, perhaps even reverence: he had been her Instructor for the majority of her time at the Academy, and had been the one to strongly recommend her promotion as a Science Officer aboard the Enterprise, for she had a brilliant mind and a quick, clean, often logical line of reasoning that he greatly appreciated. She now worked as his assistant and he entrusted her with the care of most of his experiments when he was otherwise engaged and couldn’t look after them.

After seven years, eleven months and twenty days of cooperation, they had reached quite an impressive level of mutual understanding, especially considering the Vulcan was by no means a welcoming person, instead seemingly radiating distance and contempt with his every move -many humans shied away from him, instinctively recoiling if he approached them, incapable of coping with the coldness, the blankness of his face. But D’nevla was an Orion, one of the few aliens enlisted in Starfleet on Earth, and if that hadn’t been enough for some sort of connection to form, then there was her natural empathy, that way she had for seeing every tiny, unconscious gesture even he could not suppress and interpret it right, always right.

They had been friends for many years but he had not _known_. He had not known until Jim had showed him the meaning of friendship, until that brash, golden tornado of fire and fury had thrown himself at him and completely destabilised the basis of his logic, wrenching open the doors of a floodgate he had desperately tried to contain and nearly drowning him in an underworld of emotion and _feeling_.

A dark eyebrow was raised in appreciation when the Lieutenant wordlessly offered him a leaf of that rare, unnamed plant Sulu had graciously allowed them to grow in the botany labs, and he immediately started to dissect it, busing himself with the task perhaps more completely than he would have done had he not known D’nevla was there.

“You look considerably better,” she calmly said, not lifting her eyes from the solution she was stirring, “Your mind is at ease.” With brisk, knowing movements, she slid a magnifying glass over the clear blue liquid she was examining -juice from the plant treated in a manner designed to separate its single components- and used her Padd to note down the results she was getting.

By now almost entirely comfortable with her insight -not in the same way he was with Nyota, but close enough- the Vulcan nodded curtly, acknowledging her kindness (for it was kindness and not prying, he finally knew that as well, once again thanks to Jim) with the slightest upturned quirk of his lips. “You are correct, as ever.”

A light chuckle was all the answer she gave before easily slipping back into calm professionalism. “I think we should try the flowers next, the pollen has interesting effects on the human brain which I believe should be investigated upon…”

They spent the next eleven point sixteen minutes discussing the merits of her new idea, and Spock silently wondered at the gift of friendship, wondered how it was possible that his people had forgone it for centuries, even millennia, wondered how it could be that he had been the one to whom it was, instead, bestowed.

The flailing alarms of Yellow Alert wrenched him from his train of thought, and he was already up on his feet and running towards the door before Uhura’s call reached the labs. “Please commence shutdown of all potentially dangerous proceedings, and see to it that all systems are secure. Our progress must not be disrupted.”

D’nevla nodded once, already moving about the wide laboratory, organising the hurried work of the sixteen scientists there. “Don’t worry, sir, I’ve got it covered!”

* * *

Spock got on the bridge in time for the whole ship to lurch brusquely forward, and as he had been unprepared to hold on to something, he was sent falling towards the Captain’s chair; Jim snatched out his right arm to steady him, grasping his elbow securely to help him regain his composure. “Thank you for your assistance, sir,” the Vulcan murmured, ever professional, allowing himself the smallest fraction of a second to enjoy his t’hy’la’s welcoming smile before quickly striding to his own station, just vacated by Chekov. Uhura briefed him on all that had occurred in his absence, and the Science Officer diverted the better part of his attention to the obstacle filling the screens. It had now assumed the form of a vibrant crimson sphere hovering threateningly close to the Enterprise.

“We fired at it, sir, and it just…” Chekov hesitated a little, alternating looks between Captain and Commander, “It just threw it right back at us in ze form of a powerful wave of energy.”

“I see,” Spock mused, “It is an entirely acceptable outcome, given the evidently superior design of the machine.”

“It won’t let us through, and I want to know _why_.” Kirk’s gaze was focused as always, and he occupied his chair like a king on his throne, regally draping himself over it to take much more space than was strictly needed, and yet the Vulcan did not fail to detect the tension present in the set of his shoulders and the curve of his mouth and the way his hands rested loosely -too loosely, as if they were being held relaxed on purpose- on his thighs. It was evident for him: the human was a coiled rope ready to spring, a bundle of nerves and carefully suppressed fury. He controlled his need to approach him and offer him soothing words -it was neither the place nor the time, and he trusted Jim enough to believe that were the matter to become relevant and pressing, he would tell him himself the reasons for his unease.

Spock bent over his instruments, intending to run a more thorough scan and start a wide research in the ship’s computers, but Nyota’s voice distracted him from his intent when she said: “Wait. I’m getting a transmission… It’s… very strange…”

“Let’s hear it, Lieutenant,” the Captain ordered immediately.

“It’s music,” she added, before letting the melody fill the bridge, slow, powerful and encompassing.

Utterly unable to help himself, the scientist rose to his feet, taking a few unnecessary, illogical steps towards the screen, as if shortening the distance would help him understand, because that song, that wordless, ancient song… “It is Vulcan traditional music. What is the meaning of this?” It came out in a hiss, but fortunately none of his inner turmoil was present in his voice.

It was the _Cry of Mount Seleya_ , composed in mourning after Surak’s death, the first melody to be born after the Reform, and, incidentally, the first one he had ever played on his lyre for his mother. How that music had ended up so far in the Galaxy and in the proverbial hands of such an unknown… _piece of machinery_ … was beyond him.

However, there _was_ something off with the tune, something unnameable and all the more eerie for it, something that changed the song completely yet without missing a beat… “Most disturbing.”

And then, just like that, it stopped, only to be replaced by a disembodied voice, loud and unpleasant. “ _I apologise. I got ahead of myself. That was meant for later on._ ”

Blue eyes flashed sharply as Jim straightened in his seat, proud and focused and unyielding. “This is Captain James T. Kirk of the USS Enterprise,” he said, speaking in a carefully measured voice that conveyed nothing of the destructive fury boiling just below the surface. “Who are you and why are you holding us here?”

“ _Ah… James Kirk_.”

Spock migrated behind his Captain’s chair in the blink of an eye, resting his hands on either side of his shoulders. The human did not acknowledge his presence but for the tiniest of nods, knowing it was enough. “Is there something I can do for you, whatever you are?” Kirk asked, grinding his teeth together in a valiant effort at keeping his cool.

“ _Go no further, James Kirk_.”

The crew exchanged tense glances as each of them surreptitiously prepared for battle; only the commanding team was still, communicating silently, eyes locked together and gazes intent. “Ours is a rescue mission,” Jim slowly stated, “We are willing to change course if you do not welcome us in this area. Let us leave.”

“ _I am aware of the nature of your mission_ ,” spoke the voice dismissively, “ _I insist that you heed my advice and go no further_.”

After exchanging another flurry of muted, burning glances with his First, Kirk raised his head and repeated, his tone final: “I must ask again that you let us go.”

“ _That would be unwise_ ,” the unknown alien pressed, still keeping the Enterprise trapped in what could roughly be called a tractor beam, even though it held them unmoving instead of dragging them away. “ _I have touched your mind and seen your greatest fear. That is what you will find if you continue on your path_.”

Jim stiffened: his face had gone pale, mouth set into a hard line, hands finally balled into trembling fists -he knew damn well what kind of fear the thing was referring to, and it had to be kept silent, nobody must know, nobody, _nobody_ …

“Touching another’s mind without permission is a gross violation of privacy,” Spock growled, fingers reaching out automatically as if he could protect his t’hy’la from such an invasion -illogical but instinctual urge, brought forth by the maddening knowledge that someone had dared brush against his intended’s consciousness, steal his memories from him, impose on him as such… “ _Kroikah_.”

“ _I have no interest in respecting your traditions, Vulcan_ ,” was all the answer he got, “ _And I strongly suggest you turn on your tracks_.”

“I’m sorry, but that’s unacceptable. If you don’t free us, we’ll break free on our own.” Kirk had risen to his feet, walking past his second in command to bend between Sulu and Chekov and look down at their instruments.

“ _You are welcome to try_.”

The Captain’s cerulean gaze swept over the bridge, the strong, stubbornly set faces of his crew, and then he gave the order to fire.

* * *

 

It was, of course, to no use.

In a matter of seconds, all power had dropped from the shields, _something_ had set off a dangerous reaction in the laboratory, and even as Nyota reported the ship’s status her station had caught fire -she had jumped back in time to avoid the sudden burst of flame directed at her face, but she had a third degree burn all over her left arm; Kirk had ordered his First Officer down to the labs (“We don’t want any weird diseases around, okay?”) and sent Uhura to Sickbay. Obviously, Spock had accompanied her, if only to make sure McCoy would treat her nicely, and he had departed as soon as he had seen young nurse Chapel give him the _goo-goo_ eyes, as Jim had called the illogical, incomprehensible, wistful look she got whenever he was around. Nyota’s amused laughter had followed him all the way to the corridor.

As Spock rushed towards the labs, he wondered how it could be that the odds were always, always against them -how it could be that every single mission they were on turned out to be the exact opposite of what it should have been, and obviously potentially lethal. Smoke was oozing from beneath the closed doors when he reached them, and he readied himself to face fire, readjusting his bodily functions accordingly before he made his way among the garbled remains of Starfleet’s most expensive instruments. Of the sixteen scientists he had left there before being summoned to the bridge, only two were standing, trying valiantly to salvage what was left of their research, their movements stilted, laboured. Thanks to Lieutenant D’nevla’s intervention, all the potentially dangerous machines and proceedings had been shut down, instruments silent and shielded.

The Vulcan hurried towards the high-security panel controlling the main power and immediately began feeding orders into the computers, preventing them from overloading; then, as soon as he was sure no further damage would be caused by the inexplicable power surges that had spread through the whole deck, he allowed himself to worry about his crew. Not one of them was standing by then, and he had no logical reason for that -the smoke wasn’t remotely thick enough to warrant dizziness or fainting spells, nor were there harmful chemicals tainting the air.

Silently, he kneeled next to his young friend to discover she was awake, but barely so: her clear eyes had opened to stare up at him from behind the black curtain of unruly hair that had spread messily over her face. “It’s in our minds,” she whispered softly, a warning rather than a plea for help, “Taking control of our bodies for us, sir…”

Without thinking twice about it, Spock latched the fingers of his right hand to her temple, pushing forward swiftly only to find immensely powerful walls blocking his way, preventing him from waking the slurry consciousness he could not reach. “It is… of no use,” she murmured, her words coming more and more garbled -she was fighting the drowsiness, he felt her stubbornness in the few points where their skins touched and saw it in her failing but continuous attempts at propping herself up on her elbows. “But we secured… the systems… And I saved our…” she trailed off, too tired to speak.

“Very well,” the First Officer said, scooping her up in his arms effortlessly to carry her outside the laboratories. By the time he had laid her gently on the floor, she was gone completely. Repressing a sigh, Spock emptied the perilous area of all personnel, finding with a sinking feeling of dread (which he instantly repressed) that three of his most trusted scientist had died in the sudden explosion.

Communications were down, so he set about the task of searching the whole ship, section by section, to find out whether he was the only one still functional and why; he quickly reached the conclusion that the mental power employed by the foreign entity affected different species in different ways: humans, Orions, and Benxites were thrown into a profound, unbreakable sleep, while Caitians were rendered delusional and therefore unfit for duty, Deltans and Grazerites achieved some sort of blankness of mind not unlike the deepest levels of meditation.

All in all, it was not an entirely unsuccessful quest; quite unfortunately, Spock was the only telepath on board, but there was a rather skittish Andorian nurse to whom he begrudgingly entrusted the care of his wounded colleagues -he stuttered and nodded several times more than what was strictly necessary, however he seemed apt enough at caring for his patients, and the Vulcan left him to his own devices; down in Engineering, he was pleased to be met by a fully conscious -if a little worried- Keenser, and he instructed him to tend to the Warp Core and keep life support systems working to the best of their abilities.

Then he ran back up to the bridge.

_Jim!_

* * *

 

There was the hunger, but there was nothing else.

There was the hunger, but not the fury it had always been coupled with, that fury which was the only thing keeping him grounded, sane, _human_ ; there was the hunger, absolute, cruel, hollow hunger, but not the hatred it brought with itself, that hatred which tasted like desperate defiance and the will to rebel; there was the hunger, but not that scorching will to live which compelled him to rise above his destiny -the destiny others had chosen for him- and fight, fight, fight.

There was the hunger, but there was nothing else.

He stood and starved, wrapped up in a silence so deafening he had to resist the urge to cover his ringing ears with his trembling hands. Over the course of his life, he had come to associate a wide plethora of sounds to _hunger_ , each of them precious and vital and meaningful -to be suddenly deprived of them all left him reeling, lost, confused. He expected to hear the soft whimpering of children -ragged breaths mingling and bony fingers scraping dry, sterile soil, searching, refusing to give up, and tiny voices raising in song when they were safely hidden and could not be heard. He expected to hear harsh cries and sharp orders, phasers being fired, gagged people screaming, sticks breaking under rushing feet, dead bodies hitting the ground heavily, rolling uselessly for a few minutes propelled by their last attempt at escaping. He expected to hear distant explosions to tell him he’d been successful in rendering the guards’ quarters momentarily exposed and inoperable, or at the very least cursing and hissing and the damning shouts of his name that accompanied his every incursion to the city.

Yet there was only silence.

And he felt nothing.

There should have been cold, that weird, sluggish cold that came not from the weather, not even from the thin, worn clothes barely covering him, but from the lack of energy, of nurture, of sustenance brought with famine. There should have been an ache settled deep in his muscles which he forced to behave as if everything was normal, no weakness, no weariness, only stubborn denial as he ran and walked and climbed and crawled, all to keep the children safe and _stay alive_. There should have been touches -both the gentle, affectionate touches of his gang of hiding kids and the rough, unwelcome, demanding touches of the guards with whom he bargained, grabbing him, holding him still, scratching him, taking from him what he had willingly given, destroying him but the prize was worth it, the prize was life…

There was only the hunger.

He was alone in Tarsus, standing lost on a barren wasteland under a sky he so well knew, a sky turned pale, vaguely golden from the spores of the fungus that had unleashed hell where there should have been heaven. All those years and the deadly dust still travelled through the air, still carried the smell of four thousand deaths… He stood alone, because he was the only survivor who had ever come back down after the tragedy, albeit only once and only for a few, tormented hours as he tried to prove to himself he was above the pain, above the grief, above the fear, above the unquenched need for vengeance, that he had put them behind, that they were in his past.

They were not.

He was James Tiberius Kirk, youngest Captain ever and Starfleet’s Golden boy.

He was also James Tiberius Kirk, the unwanted, troublesome child left to rot on a colony because his mother couldn’t be bothered to stay more than a few weeks on earth with him, because his brother had fled and was said to be ensnared in dangerously illegal activity, because his father had died a hero’s death and abandoned the world, abandoned them, abandoned him with the Kelvin to look up to, with the phantom of Nero’s ship to shadow his every step.

Not good enough to live. Not worthy of what little food was left on Tarsus.

James Tiberius Kirk curled his mouth in a snarl and balled his hands into fists, because thirteen years before Kodos the Executioner had decided he was to die, and his caretakers -people he had trusted, _loved_ even- had betrayed him, willing to sell him to the soldiers and be rid of one who had never truly belonged.

Yet his heart still beat and his blood still flowed and his lungs still breathed and his mind still raced and he was alive and free, free, free.

Free.

He was _free_.

He _had_ to be.

* * *

They were dead in space. The Enterprise was floating purposelessly among the stars, her shields down, completely at the mercy of whomever chose to attack them; Spock hissed quietly under his breath as he rushed to the helm, careful not to jostle either Chekov or Sulu, and readjusted their course to cruise speed, well aware that he would not be permitted an escape -the energy-filled object which had earlier blocked their path was still looming nearby, and the ship could not take another hit, not with virtually no personnel to manage her.

Slowly, the Vulcan moved to lean over the Captain’s chair, where his t’hy’la was still gracefully sprawled, only now he was asleep, eyes shut and mouth set into a snarling line, teeth worrying his lower lip: whatever dream he had been forced into, it wasn’t pleasant.

“ _T’hy’la_ ,” Spock murmured in his ancient language, instinct taking over for a split second as his very soul rejected what was being done to _he who would be his_ , “T’hy’la, look upon me, I am calling thee, t’hy’la, _ka’i_ , _dvun’uh_ , t’hy’la, move, I await thine answer, _sanu_ …” His fingers traced restlessly over the human’s face, brushing cheekbones and forehead and eyelids and nose and chin and rounded ears in his attempt at rousing him.

“ _You will not succeed_ ,” stated the voice calmly, a hint of distaste apparent in the even tone.

“ _Ikap’uh t’du ru’lut_!” Spock ground out between clenched teeth, finally losing his patience and deciding it was appropriate to simply order the alien to shut his mouth so he could _think_. The eerie, would-be Vulcan music had begun playing again, and it was grating at his nerves, unsettling him with the tidal wave of memories -collective memories as well as his own- threatening to drown him in their intensity.

He decided to make another effort at waking his companion; he wondered if perhaps physical stimuli were the answer, what with humans being so very susceptible to them… he tried shaking him quite violently, then he even went so far as to lean down and kiss him full on the mouth. When neither produced the desired effect, Spock slapped his Captain in the face, gently, keeping his strength firmly in check so he would not do him any serious damage.

He was suddenly reminded that years before, as he stood facing a rebellious, irreverent Cadet at court, he had wished to do just that. If Jim had been awake, he would have surely evoked some illogical entities such as fate or karma, but he was still oblivious to the world, even as a red stain began to mark his cheek. Spock’s eyes narrowed, and he rushed to Uhura’s vacant station, using one hand to try and turn down the music -to no avail- and the other to re-open the channel through which they had first heard the alien’s voice.

“What are your motives?” the Vulcan asked, his mind preoccupied with bringing down figures of just how long the humans -his humans, his crew, his friends, his _ashaya_ \- could survive in that state. Would it be long enough for him to find a solution? What would they need? Could he somehow bargain their release? “What do you gain by holding us here?”

“ _I have taken a liking to this James Kirk_ ,” the being lazily explained, never once appearing on the view screen, apparently quite keen on remaining clouded in a halo of mystery. “ _His mind is most appealing. I wish to keep him for myself_.”

Spock’s teeth flashed white as he bared them in clear threat, and at once he relinquished his seat to stand behind his Captain, wrapping both hands possessively around his forehead in a ridiculous attempt at shielding him; such an endeavour was pointless, he knew, for the thing was already inside his beloved mind, touching it, owning it… “Thou shall never be allowed to,” he declared tersely.

“ _And who will be there to stop me?_ ” the creature mused, so arrogant, so sure of their power, “ _I have no wish to kill any of you. I merely rendered your crew unconscious so they could not prevent me from taking what I want._ ”

The Vulcan tensed further, hearing what was implied: the Enterprise would not be freed unless he handed his Captain - _Jim_ \- over; the people aboard would keep sleeping until eventually they would die of thirst or hunger unless he allowed the alien to take his t’hy’la.

_Not possible._

Spock lowered his gaze to his human’s tormented face, contemplating with a sinking feeling of hideous dread the choice laying ahead of him. In a gesture that was ancient and private and infinitely tender, he slid his first and middle fingers across his cheek, up and down, up and down, creating a soothing rhythm that helped placate the turmoil wreaking his brain.

 _The needs of the many outweigh the needs of the few. Or the one_.

He knew this -it was one of the first things taught in his culture, etched in his brain, an axiom, always true and irrefutable and more important than…

 _Not possible_.

“Tell me, then, why is it you have not yet taken what you desire,” the Vulcan murmured, leashing his anger in favour of keeping a cool, level tone, eyes cold even as he cradled Jim’s head carefully between his hands.

“ _I will when he is ready_.”

“When you have broken him,” Spock stated flatly, splaying ten fingers in the position of a meld; he did not touch the human’s mind yet, fearing it would only worsen his situation; instead he waited, ready to jump into action at the first possible occasion. He had examined his instruments and was painfully aware the Enterprise was nearly powerless against the superior alien technology, so logically he could not pursue their freedom by means of brutal force; it seemed their fate once more rested upon his Captain’s shoulders -whether he would resist the mental attack or not; whether he would fight back enough that he would discourage any further attempt at taking him; whether he would convince the creature to let him go. “Jim Kirk will not break.”

“ _He is rather strong, for a human. But I_ will _have him_.”

“He is mine!” the Vulcan hissed, his violent instincts awoken and raging. He pushed them back, controlling the rush of adrenaline through his veins and the pounding in his ears and the bloodthirst that was growing exponentially. “You have no right to take him against his will.”

“ _You pose no threat to me, Vuhlkansu_.”

“Then why leave me awake?” Spock challenged, raising his voice a little. Silently, inconspicuously (he hoped), he stirred the tiniest tendril of thought towards his human, not enough to meld but certainly enough to feel the strongest of his emotions. The rush of pure, unhindered hunger that hit him when he let down his powerful shields nearly drove a reaction out him. Nearly. It was a close call, but the scientist managed to maintain his outer layer of placid calm, and he pulled closer to Jim’s mind.

“ _Your mixed mind repels me_ ,” the alien declared matter-of-factly, “ _I cannot make sense of it_.”

Had Spock been fully human, he would have laughed derisively, instead he simply curled one corner of his mouth upwards and said, his voice full of venom and contempt: “How unfortunate for you.”

The music abruptly stopped, and the Vulcan sensed a vicious quality to the silence that followed; Jim’s lips had curled further up, he was gasping softly and muttering nonsensical words under his breath, fingers twitching from where they were resting against his knees. The First Officer leaned down to brush his lips against his forehead, one of the fastest ways to convey emotional reassurance without resorting to a meld. He hoped it would reach him, wherever he mentally was at the moment.

“ _Play for me, Vulcan_.” The voice had returned, harsh and unexpected, but Spock did not even flinch: he simply straightened his back and composed his face into a mask of indifference. “ _I shall free him if you do._ ”

A dark eyebrow arched scornfully as the scientist’s brain refused to even compute the being’s request. “You will forgive me if I do not believe you.”

Then came the order, straightforward and cruel: “ _Entertain me, Vulcan, with your lyre_.” At the sole mention of the instrument, Spock froze completely, reinforcing the mental shields he always had in place even as he was perfectly aware it was useless. “Why?” he hissed -and he instantly knew why: his mindscape was now filled with images of his mother, her smile, her sparkling eyes so much like his, her quiet loving, her sweet touches, that warm look she got whenever he played his _ka’athyra_ for her…

“ _Because it will hurt you_.”

“And if I refuse?” Spock asked, enclosing his thoughts and feelings in a small corner of his brain, locked behind thick walls of reason and logic.

“ _You claim he is yours, yet he is unmarked_ ,” the alien stated, a warning etched deep in their voice, “ _And you would not even do this little thing for him_ …”

“There is _nothing_ I would not sacrifice for my Captain.” The Vulcan squared his shoulders and stared at the empty view screen, standing almost on attention. “However, I strongly doubt you will relinquish him to me only because I have played some ancient songs.”

“ _You are willing to take the chance? You would let this opportunity slide and ignore it_? _Because it is an illogical price to pay for your… intended_?” He was being mocked, that much was clear, and his grip on the human’s face tightened a bit in response. “ _How about this: if you play for me, I shall let you reach his mind. It will be a fair fight, then_.” Half a second passed in which there was only silence. “ _What is your decision? He is suffering_.”

“Very well,” Spock capitulated, “I shall play.”

And play he did. He rose from his crouch next to the Captain’s chair and went to fetch his harp from where he’d hidden it in the depths of his quarters, then returned to the bridge, settling down on the floor by Kirk’s feet and embracing the instrument like he had done so many times in the past. The scent, the texture, the sound, all of it was familiar and all of it felt wrong, misplaced, _evil_.

_She for whom I played is dead. I had vowed never to touch the ka’athyra again._

He made a striking picture, sitting there bathed in cold light with his silent lyre clutched to his chest, staring forlornly at the chords; his eyelashes cast long shadows on his cheekbones, his long fingers ghosted over the keys without seeming to find peace, his shoulders were trembling slightly with tension.

 _I shall play for Jim now_.

“ _I want you to play and_ feel _it, Vulcan. Otherwise it’s not fair, is it?_ ” The alien reminded him, and Spock clenched his teeth and soldiered on. The soft, mournful tune filled the synthetic air and wrapped around him like a spider web -had he been entirely human it would have broken him- and tightened, tightened, tightened… The _Cry of Mount Seleya_ rang in his ears as he played each note with an ease that came from years of experience, and he mouthed the words he had learned as a child, doing his best to think of Jim, only of Jim, his precious t’hy’la. 

And if there were tears on his face by the end of it, he wiped them away with a swift motion, and they were gone.

“I have done as you asked,” he said, keeping his voice steady and hard. He let go of the lyre so he could splay his fingers again on his Captain’s face, feeling them warm even from that small amount of contact. “Now let me meld with him.”

 

* * *

 

 

Spock reaches forward with all that he is, but he encounters a wall. It is a slippery wall, one he cannot pierce or break, and it surrounds his t’hy’la’s mind completely, shielding him from his Vulcan companion and forcing him away. It tastes bittersweet, iridescent and changing as it is, a twisting, unsurmountable obstacle preventing him from joining his human into a meld, from delving deep within the confines of his consciousness, from quenching his barely-suppressed desire…

He needs Jim, so much so it nearly renders him crazy, bringing bouts of desperate affection and burning lust alike to the surface as he tries to find a way in. _Jim, Jim, Jim, Jim, t’hy’la, Jim, Jim, answer my plight, Jim…_

But there is no answer, and so he hungers, hungers so much, so much…

Spock crashes his thoughts into a million pieces and flattens them against the shield, pressing, reaching, sampling…

It is made of his own memories -torn from his past, from his soul itself, they push back against him with glaring clarity, distracting him from the task at hand with the sheer intensity of feeling that pours into his heart as countless different images of his mother laugh and smile and even cry, dancing in a whirl of colour and sound and smell.

He is three years old and she is holding him tightly ( _her scent so sweet and all around him, caring for him_ ), huddled up close beneath the bed sheets, rocking him back and forth, back and forth, until he finally sleeps…

She is standing in the hall ( _proud, beautiful, fragile, strong_ ) and she’s the only human in a crowd of Vulcans, so different, so alien yet so known and so familiar and so safe as her barely adolescent son walks to her side and looks up at her with a mixture of guilty affection and rebellious contempt ( _he loves her but she cannot be told_ ) …

His eyes sting from tears he refuses to shed and he holds himself impossibly still ( _he is wrong, very wrong, he should have never been born, he is an aberration_ ), but his mother sees through the mask of indifference and wraps her arms around him, whispering gentle nonsense into his ears, comforting him when T’Pring shuts him off their bond ( _she was supposed to be different, supposed to be friendly, supposed to be like her_ ) and leaves him lonely and aching and forlorn…

She is beaming at him, human joy freely rolling from her skin in waves ( _he is making her happy, maybe there is some merit to his existence_ ), and even if he is already five and should not indulge in physical proximity, he settles into her lap and curls around the instrument ( _a present from her, unexpected and perfect_ ) that is almost as big as him and he plays for her and she is happy, and…

And he is not yet thirty and staring down at an Apocalypse as his planet is rendered to pieces and his mind shatters with the pain of millions of people ( _the children, the children, falling, burning, hurting_ ) dying -their despair is his own, their grief is his own, their fear is his own and he stands immobile on the ground that’s caving under his weight and he thinks of the Elders who will preserve their culture because Vulcan must continue, it must, it must, it must- and his mother turns sharply towards him, and she is the only one allowed to fully express the depth of terror and desolation and bewilderment so it shows on her face, she is pale ( _pale, a human should never be this pale, pale as he is, pale with skin tinted green but not from blood, from nausea_ ), then she is screaming, a desperate, wretched sound, and he reaches for her as she falls and she can’t be saved, can’t be rescued, and

And he’s beaming aboard the Enterprise as his planet implodes and nearly every bond in his mind breaks ( _he feels every cut and it does not take more than a minute but it is the longest of his life, an eternity of endless agony_ ) -staggering pain that leaves him standing frozen as his brain attempts to compute several truths in a matter of seconds – she is dead; they are dead; all is dead.

Death washes over him; Spock recoils instinctively from the shield but stops himself before retreating further, because even if it hurts, Jim is his, only his, and he must save him, save his own personal sun, his only best destiny, his t’hy’la.

“ _You must earn him, Vulcan. Do not think it will be easy to persuade me to let him go_.”

 _Very well_. He will face the pain and break through.

 

* * *

 

 

Jim Kirk looked upon the shadow of horror past and his ice blue gaze betrayed nothing.

A man stood tall in front of him, angular and regal and proud and _merciless_ : eyes the colour of fire stared derisively at the Starship Captain, and a thin mouth curved in a sneer under a pair of sunburnt moustaches; the dark black robes he wore waved in time with the newly risen wind, and he bore Starfleet insignia -a golden pin shining brightly upon his chest.

Kodos the Executioner raised one hand imperiously, that same gesture that haunted every survivor’s dreams: “You live still,” he said, “ _Unworthy_.”

Kirk pushed past the haze starvation had wrought upon his senses to pull off the best of his irreverent grins, and laughed hollowly at the figure which was clearly a product of his imagination. “Surprise, surprise.”

“Not for long,” Kodos continued sharply, “You stole the right to survive and I will make sure you return it.”

That voice… it was exactly the same he remembered, issuing those orders that had meant death for so many, those orders that had destroyed the only peace he had found as a child… Jim shivered and felt cold, so cold, but he wasn’t fooled, he _knew_ that none of this was real, and he wanted _out_. However, there was something… “You did not die, thirteen years ago. You fled.”

The Governor nodded slowly, a small, complacent smile stretching his mouth. “Indeed. I await you so I can finish what I started.”

“ _This is what you will find if you continue on your journey_.”

Reflexively, Jim stared up at the dusty sky as Kodos vanished in a flash, and reality washed over him -it was the alien from before, the one who had stopped the Enterprise during her rescue mission, and he was suddenly aware of how he was clenching his fists against the armrests of his Captain’s chair, of how his feet were trashing about and his head lolled to the side and his lips parted, he was whispering under his breath…

And there were hands on his face, a cool touch that went straight to his brain, and someone was panting harshly in the hollow of his neck, quiet, tiny gasps of pain.

Spock. Spock was near, hurting, and probably trying to wake him somehow, but his eyelids wouldn’t lift, he was trapped.

“Let me go,” he snarled into the still air. “My ship needs me. I can’t stay here and play games with you all day. What do you want from me?”

“ _You fascinate me. Your mind is bright and dynamic, but your fear of the past obscures it. I wish to free you_.”

The answer sent a chill of disgust down the human’s spine, and he hoped that whatever his Vulcan was doing, he would hurry. “If you want to free me, let the Enterprise leave.”

“ _I can make your grief disappear_ ,” the alien said, ignoring him, and under Jim’s startled eyes, the wretched landscape of Tarsus IV began to fade away, as if a new, different picture was being painted in its stead. Green, lush fields replaced barren wasteland, a terse sky stretched azure above his head, crossed here and there by springy clouds recently relieved of a heavy cargo of water, the rich scent of rain was everywhere, and in the distance wild horses ran, strong and _living_. “ _I can wipe your nightmares clear of your mind_.”

Kirk hissed in frustration, stubbornly refusing to feel even an ounce of awe at seeing his most private fantasy laid out before him. “You _have_ to let me go. Don’t you understand? People will die if we don’t hurry. People will _die_!”

Suddenly, there was a gentle pressure against the confines of his mind; he was not sure how he came to notice it, but it sent a rush of urgency through his veins, because of course, _of course_ Spock would meld with him, he was a Vulcan for crying out loud, and it was common knowledge that a Vulcan’s first answer to any problem was _‘meld with it, no matter if it fries my brain or makes me dance the hula’_.

But Spock couldn’t know about Tarsus. He couldn’t. If he saw what he had done, what had become of him during those terrible, blind months, he would certainly leave -and Jim was selfish and greedy, he wanted to keep him… “Let me go, _now_.”

“ _You will find your past ahead of you_ ,” the alien repeated, seemingly surprised by the vehemence with which he was asserting his will, “ _You will be forced to face it_.”  
“Then so _be it_!” Kirk hadn’t meant to raise his mental voice so much, but he found himself screaming, “When the time comes I’ll face my past and my future too, I don’t need you to keep me trapped in some happy delusion for the rest of my life, thank you very much!” He was walking in a circle among the imagined grass, restless and full of resolve. “And definitely not if the price for said happiness is the death of countless people!”

“ _So you choose to go forward?_ ”

“Yes, dammit, forward, forward!”

And before he knew it, Jim was waking up on the bridge, pulling away from Spock’s touch in time to catch him as he basically fell into his lap; he stared down at him: he was chalky white, hands trembling and teeth sunk into his lower lip. “Hey, Spock… hey! You all right?” he called, brushing his forehead to feel that he was slightly cooler than normal.

The Vulcan drew a deep breath, cracked open one eye, and slowly got back up on his feet, a relieved expression crossing his face before it was replaced by his usual placid composure. “I am… quite well, Jim.”

“Good.” All around them, the bridge crew was regaining consciousness.

“I… vas in Russia,” Chekov muttered confusedly, rubbing his eyes with his knuckles, “It vas summer in _Moscov_ , _da_. _Ve_ had Vodka.”

 

* * *

 

Spock slid past the doors to Jim’s quarters, carrying a tray with two plates on it in one hand and a single slice of chocolate cake in the other. “I have made you Plomeek soup,” he said to the empty room; Kirk was by his side in a minute, emerging from the bathroom wearing loose pyjamas and a bright, welcoming smile on his face. “That’s wonderful, Spock,” he murmured sincerely, taking the tray from him to place it on the table they usually employed for their chess matches. “Thank you.” He chuckled, catching the Vulcan’s hands in his in what could have passed for a kiss but was more of a scrutiny for injuries. “No burns, cuts, missing fingers? I’m impressed.”

He brought middle and index fingers to his lips, then let them go as the Vulcan shivered and cleared his throat quietly, trying -and failing- to be inconspicuous. “Shall we eat, Jim?”

The Captain looked down at their dinner and made a face: “Transparent plates? What the hell?” He brushed his palm against the side of the plate and laughed openly. “It’s sorta creepy, don’t you think?”

“I have no particular opinion on the matter,” the scientist admitted, taking a spoonful and breathing a silent sigh of relief upon making sure his creation was not only edible, but actually _palatable_. That was an absolute first. “I am quite sure someone tampered with the settings of the replicators.”

“I bet it was Scotty,” Kirk mused. “And the soup’s great.”

“I am gratified.”

They sat together in companionable silence for a while, occasionally sharing a grin and the quirk of an eyebrow, and Spock spent his time watching his human -the way he would clink his spoon against the transparent plate, or the way he would lift those too blue eyes (so vivid and powerful) to meet his, or the way he would stretch his feet under the table to kick him delicately on the shins to get his attention, as if the Vulcan hadn’t been entirely focused on him already. As soon as they were finished, he took the tray away and left Jim with the cake.

Kirk’s gaze followed him as he got up and disposed of the dirty plates; he had always found his favourite clean-freak to be most adorable when faced with the challenge of the general mess in his quarters: usually, Spock left him to _not_ deal with it alone, respecting his boundaries, but sometimes, if he was distracted or relaxed enough, he would make an aborted attempt at tidying up, giving the human one more reason to make fun of him.

“You are more than welcome to wreak order in my perfectly organised chaos,” Jim told his Vulcan as he saw him exchange murderous glares with the mountain of Padds, books and crumpled papers on his desk. Spock startled a little and turned towards him guiltily: “I do not wish to intrude,” he said, clasping his hands behind his back.

“Nah, it’s cool,” Kirk assured him, swallowing his last bite of cake; he picked up the plate and made to dump it unceremoniously on top of the pile, but his First Officer snatched it from his grip and dropped it into the trash chute, giving him his new, upgraded version of the Vulcan death glare (this one was filled in equal measure with contempt, exasperation, and a good dose of reluctant affection). Jim kissed his cheek gently: “Order-addict.”

“I prefer ‘organized’.” Spock crossed his arms, allowing the human to run his hand through his hair. “Do you wanna stay the night?” his Captain asked him, laughing when the question alone was enough to bring a rush of green on his face and the tips of his ears. “That would be agreeable.”

“You bet,” Jim muttered, shaking his head fondly, “Computer, raise temperature by seven degrees.”

“ _Temperature, raised to 28 degrees Celsius_.”

After a trip to his quarters to retrieve his nightly clothes and another to the facilities, the Vulcan settled next to his human on the bed. “Something is troubling you,” he stated calmly, reaching out to press their hands palm to palm. Kirk took hold of his wrist and began playing absentmindedly with his fingers, smiling when Spock closed his eyes and breathed sharply through his nose. “Yes,” he answered simply.

“Will you tell me what it is?” the scientist asked then, turning more fully towards him.

“No,” said Jim, gently but firmly, “Not now. Someday, maybe, but not now.”

 _But how can I help you if you keep me in the dark?_ “As you wish,” he whispered, ignoring the sharp sting of rejection because it was the logical thing to do. _There are so many things you do not share with me, t’hy’la. Why?_

The Captain held his arms open wide for him and smiled that bright, charming smile that never failed to warm him and tame him and bewitch him. “Come here, you.”

Spock went willingly, curling up against his chest like a cat. _Why, t’hy’la? Why do you hide from me? What do you fear?_

 

* * *

 

 

Later that night, the Vulcan watched over the sleeping human, felt his hands search blindly inside the bed, his fingers digging into his skin; he drew him closer, and Jim’s face fell against his neck, nose brushing his jaw as he breathed: “Stay,” in a desperate plea.

He whispered: “Always,” and it was a vow, but Spock knew, from every point of contact they shared, that his t’hy’la did not believe him -not even in sleep.

_Why?_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So. You might have noticed I ran this chapter along two different storylines, Spock and his lyre and Jim and Tarsus; I will tie up both lose ends in the next two chapters ^.^ Also, Kodos is represented as Jim imagines him -he is the personification of his fears and insecurities, and he’ll have to outgrow them.  
> Hope you all liked the chapter, and thank you so much for reading and following me ‘til here!
> 
> LLAP :3


	10. Hatred

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Bones… He’ll be there. He’ll be there and I’ll see him and damn it if I won’t destroy that murderous son of a bitch!” His voice grew louder, eyes sparkling with the force of his hatred and pain. “I’ll make him pay, how dare he…”
> 
> “Jim.” Leonard looked down at him sternly, grasped his shoulders to steady him. “Stop right there, kid. Remember who you are and where you stand now.”
> 
> Kirk took a deep breath. “I’m a mess.”
> 
> “It’s normal. It’s human.” He put particular emphasis in the word.
> 
> The young man shook his head, looking for all the world defeated and drained. “I can’t be human, Bones. I’m the Captain, I can’t…”
> 
> McCoy gave his young friend a little, brisk push, trying to will him into seeing some sense: “Come on, not even Spock would ask you to…”
> 
> “Spock?” At the mention of the Vulcan’s name, Jim’s expression closed off completely, face paling as he set his jaw stubbornly and hissed: “He doesn’t know, Bones. And you can’t tell him.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Woah… I’m hitting the ten-chapter mile! It feels great <.< I am exactly 10% through this fic… Fascinating. So, actual notes: again, I am dealing with Tarsus, and this is probably the darkest chapter yet… but I swear I’ll lighten up with the next one! So please enjoy the second part of Tarsus Arc and suffer along with poor Jim!

**_10_ **

**_Hatred_ **

 

Strong fingers wove through golden hair as Jim took his head in his hands and stared -an empty, clinical glare devoid of humanity- at the computer that seemed to be the sole, enormous occupant of McCoy’s office; the doctor was silent by his side, arms crossed in his usual, long-suffering fashion but face twisted in a grimace that was more of concern and empathetic understanding than his signature, nearly-permanent scowl.

“…Adri Kala. Ynallie Nguyen. Nenetl Ortega. Thomas Leighton. Kevin Riley,” Kirk was listing the names darkly, watching as the screen flickered, jumping from page to page as the machine tried to connect each one with its correspondent face. “All of them died recently, and circumstances were mysterious. We don’t know why. We don’t really know when, either. And… Starfleet wants to know _who_.” 

Leonard bit his lower lip, unconsciously drawing closer to his young friend before he could think about stopping himself; but stop he did, if only a few steps shy of hovering over his crouching figure, because he was reminded once again that despite all appearances, Jim was by no means _fragile_ , nor was he in need of protection: he was capable, bold and ruthless, and the fact that he kept his darkest side firmly in check and leashed by his heartfelt respect of life didn’t mean it wasn’t part of him -he had learned to fight and steal and kill at a very young age, after all, and those things did not simply _disappear_ at will.

“The survivors, Bones. All dead but me.” Jim levelled his uncharacteristically grave eyes on his face, letting his hands fall into his own lap even as he straightened his back and stubbornly lifted his chin. “I bet I’m next.”

“Over my dead corpse,” the doctor growled immediately, expression dark with unspoken fury. He leaned his hip against the desk, pressed his palm flat on the shiny, polished surface right in front of the computer. “They’ll have to get past the crew to touch you. And that’s _not_ happening.”

Kirk smiled softly; it was brief, it was feeble, but it was there nonetheless. “Thanks, Bones.”

“No sweat, kid.” McCoy dipped a hand inside the old-fashioned physician white coat Joanna had bought him on shore leave and drew out a stick of sugar-free mint candies; after popping one into his own mouth, he wordlessly offered them to the Captain, who declined, feeling too worked up to eat even so small a thing. “So who do you reckon is behind these murders?”

Jim huffed, clearly aggravated, and got up, beginning to pace about the small area in front of his vacated chair in an instinctual attempt at burning down some tension. “It’s _him_ , Bones, I swear it’s _him_.”

And there was no mistaking who he was talking about. “Kodos.” The doctor scratched at the back of his neck, lost in thought. Kirk had already told him most of what he’d seen when trapped in the alien’s illusion, and he, too, was inclined to believe that what he had said was true: the fallen Governor of Tarsus IV was still alive. “How long till we reach Planet Q?”

Again, Jim’s hand flew up to his forehead, and he massaged his temples to will away the migraine that was sure to build up sooner or later, thanks to the combination of sleep-deprivation and emotional turmoil he was enduring. “Three hours, fifteen minutes, a bunch of seconds,” he said blankly. “Bones… He’ll be there. He’ll be there and I’ll see him and damn it if I won’t destroy that murderous son of a bitch!” His voice grew louder, eyes sparkling with the force of his hatred and pain. “I’ll make him pay, how _dare he_ …”

“Jim.” Leonard looked down at him sternly, grasped his shoulders to steady him. “Stop right there, kid. Remember who you are and where you stand now.”

Kirk took a deep breath. “I’m a mess.”

“It’s normal. It’s _human_.” He put particular emphasis in the word.

The young man shook his head, looking for all the world defeated and _drained_. “I _can’t_ be human, Bones. I’m the Captain, I can’t…”

McCoy gave his young friend a little, brisk push, trying to will him into seeing some sense: “Come _on_ , not even _Spock_ would ask you to…”

“Spock?” At the mention of the Vulcan’s name, Jim’s expression closed off completely, face paling as he set his jaw stubbornly and hissed: “He doesn’t know, Bones. And you can’t tell him.”

The doctor frowned deeply, and Kirk was surprised to note that confusion was all he was conveying. “What do you mean, _he doesn’t know_?”

The Starship Captain blinked rapidly, took a steadying breath. “Should he?”

Now Leonard was starting to look more and more aggravated; he had released Jim’s shoulders and was running his index finger in circles over his chin, tapping his foot on the floor. “The two of you… you’re together, right?” he asked, even though he’d been the first to know, a week and a half before. “I mean, together, _together_ , right?” he added, increasingly uncomfortable.

The infamous Kirk grin flitted into place momentarily: “Yeah, _very_ much so,” he drawled, just to make him squirm. Then he sobered quickly, eyes dark and intent as he fixed them on his CMO. “Bones, what’s your point with…?”

McCoy interrupted him curtly: “And you never… meld?”

“No,” Jim said blankly. “No, never. Spock doesn’t ask, and I’m certainly not…” Now that he thought about it, it _was_ weird… And the stormy glare Bones was currently sporting was quite worrisome. “Dammit, Jim, what do you mean he doesn’t ask?” he exploded, snapping his fingers inches from his nose in his sudden rage, “That’s a Vulcan! A fucking _bondless_ Vulcan, of _course_ he needs to…”

“Needs?” Kirk repeated, sighing as he contemplated his immediate future; perhaps it was time for him to resign to his fate and give up on bullshit love-depending relationships and emotional involvements. “As in, a biological need? Or more like an it’s-fun-but-I-can-go-without need?”

The doctor’s eyes flashed with that dangerous look Jim had come to associate with multiple Hypos piercing his neck and lots of dark swearing. “As soon as this mess is over I’m gonna have a nice little chat with that _fucking idiot_.” He picked up a Padd and wrote something with sharp, angry motions. “And _you_!” Suddenly, he was jabbing his finger in his chest, “You should pay me more. No damn way I am obliged to give _your precious goblin_ The Talk, but I’m going to anyways because that’s how good of a friend I am.”

“I’m not following,” Kirk admitted in a rush, “Spock clearly doesn’t _want_ to meld. And I sure as hell don’t either.”

And there came McCoy’s _I’m-also-a-trained-psycologist-so-I-will-psycoanalise-my-way-into-your-brain_ look. “ _Why_?” 

Jim’s sigh was slow and pained, a testimony to the hollow feeling of loss that was already threatening to engulf him. He knew, he _knew_ he shouldn’t have gotten involved… “He’s not gonna like it in my mind, Bones.” He shrugged as if it was no big deal.

“Now that’s some angsty shit you’re saying there, kid.” Leonard deflated, his fury evaporating as quickly as it had risen only to be replaced by a soft, caring demeanour that made Kirk want to simultaneously scream in rage and spill his heart out. Too tired to even raise his voice, he chose the latter, because after all, if he had to talk, if he had to reveal his soul-deep insecurities, to whom would he entrust them but to Bones? Really, there was… no one else.

“See, Spock and I… This thing we have… it’s just a whim. It won’t take too long for it to end.” He returned to massaging his temples with his trembling fingers, staring unseeingly at the tightly woven fabric of his black uniform pants, seemingly engrossed with the way it folded slightly every time he bent his knee just so. “As soon as Spock discovers what I was like before… As soon as he sees the beast I was in Tarsus… The ugly stuff I did to protect my children… He’ll run away for sure, and all the better for him.”

Silently, McCoy drew a chair next to his and sat down so they were facing each other; he patiently waited for Jim to look at him, then spoke, quietly and with purpose: “I hate to see you like this -wallowing in your past and refusing any chance at going on.” He arched one eyebrow at him, resisting the urge to shake him until his teeth chattered. “That’s not the Jim Kirk I know!”

“I don’t fucking understand what you...”

The doctor interrupted him firmly. “Lord forbid I say this again, but here goes… You should give the Vulcan some more credit. All these years and he’s stuck to you like glue. Hell, _I_ know damn well how many times he landed himself in my Sickbay to save _your_ overconfident ass.” He snickered softly, but it didn’t reach his eyes, which stayed focused and severe. “And _everyone_ knows just how many times he fucked up regulations on the off chance he could get you back on board. Scotty’s actually keeping tabs.” Another chuckle covered Jim’s interested cry of “No, _really_?” and then he went on: “He’s done things for you no Vulcan would even dare _speak_ of. Why should this be different?”

Kirk got up slowly, leaning against the table for the fraction of a second before he set his jaw and turned his back on his friend. “Because you have no idea what it was like, in Tarsus. I told you… stuff.” He took a deep breath, clenched his fists. “But other things happened, twisted, wrong things, and no one, _no one_ , should be made to live them. Especially not Spock. He’s had enough tragedy for a lifetime.”

“But…”

“No, Bones. My decision is final. He mustn’t know. Promise me you won’t tell him.”

“I don’t like this one bit, kid. But yes, _fine_. I promise.”

* * *

 

The gentle sounds of ancient classical music filled Rec Room III, the smallest one and Nyota’s favourite because of its perfect acoustics; she sat ramrod straight at the piano, eyes closed as she played the tender, encompassing notes of Beethoven’s _Für Elise_ for her own amusement: it was her way of relaxing, of washing off that knot of tension that coiled at the back of her neck with every mission turned into a nightmare. For once, she was alone, blissfully alone -although she had grown quite accustomed by then to having a cheering crowd hovering around her whenever she touched an instrument, she relished those moments of private stillness. She had always been an early riser, and most of the crew was either working or asleep by then, which was perfectly fine by her.

She did not stop playing, did not even open her eyes to look when the soft noise of smooth, carefully-measured footsteps joined the symphony she was coaxing out of the black and white keys. She did not need to: Uhura knew well who it was, and she would wait him out. The melody drew into a crescendo of springy notes cascading quickly around them, and as she progressed towards the last sheet, she glanced to her left, at the spot he preferred to sit in when he wanted to simply listen, and of course he was there, quiet and collected and…

The music stopped abruptly before reaching its end as the woman took in Spock’s expression, or lack thereof -there was nothing, _nothing_ on his face, only an emptiness that gave a cruel impression of lifelessness and sent off all kinds of alarms in the back of her mind. She rose quickly, and the Vulcan stayed completely motionless even as the room seemed to shrink as it was flooded with her worry and discomfort.

“I did not wish to interrupt,” the Science Officer said mechanically, turning his head towards her by a fraction when she sat by his side, not close enough to touch but closer than she usually did. “I merely wished to hear you play.”

She was aware that music had always had a calming effect on him, so she nodded. “Computer, play Track Eleven, memory chip A-D 569, in a loop,” she ordered, and soon a soft lullaby drowned the subdued growl of the engines buzzing in the background. “Something’s wrong,” Nyota stated with finality, in a tone that was both comforting and warning: she wasn’t accepting no for an answer. “Tell me.”

He must have been more tired than she’d originally surmised, because he caved surprisingly quickly, ducking his head as if in shame but wearing still that stony non-expression she so hated to see on his face. “I have been to the Sickbay. Looking for Jim.” Spock’s eyes were empty, too. Flat. “He was speaking to the doctor.” He looked at Uhura to gauge her reaction, but she was every bit as unreadable as he, chin tilted forward infinitesimally, mouth curved into a gentle line -the perfect listening stance. “It was not my intention to spy on their conversation, but I overheard… something.”

Jim’s words rang through his mind cruelly, with the clarity brought by an eidetic memory. _See, Spock and I… This thing we have… it’s just a whim. It won’t take too long for it to end. Just a whim. Won’t take too long for it to end. Just a whim._ He repeated them for her, and watched as her gaze hardened. “I left immediately, and yet…”

“Spock, I…” She fell silent, cutting her sentence before it could even begin -what could she say? _I’m sorry?_ She was, but it would mean close to nothing to a Vulcan.

He entwined his fingers and rested his chin on them, staring at the wall. “Will he tire of me soon?” he mused, voice low and hollow. He left out the _Like you did_ a human would have certainly added, because he was too polite, too disciplined to let it slip, yet still it seemed like it hung in the air, leaving a veil of muted accusation and self-doubt to settle between them.

Nyota had never told him her reasons for wanting to terminate their romantic relationship, nor did she plan on ever doing so; he would feel guilty as sin, and he didn’t deserve it, to go on thinking it was his fault -well, _it was_ , it was all his fault, but it couldn’t be helped: Spock loved Kirk, they were _t’hy’la_ , they were good for each other in ways they didn’t even imagine… Silently, the communications officer raised a hand to place it on the Vulcan’s back to comfort him through simple touch, but he stiffened and recoiled, refusing the contact. She let her hands drop and sighed softly. Logic, then. “I’m sure it has all to do with him, and nothing to do with you.”

Spock raised an eyebrow at that, the most emotion he had expressed so far, and she counted it as a small victory. “What do you mean?” he asked curtly. Uhura sent a suspicious look in his direction: it wasn’t like him to speak in such a colloquial manner.

“How much sleep did you get last night?” she demanded.

The Vulcan blinked. “Thirty-four minutes and approximately sixteen seconds.” Just enough for Jim to slip out the bed and vanish from his quarters.

“And last week? How much?” Nyota insisted, disapproval radiating off her in waves that made her friend shiver slightly.

“Vulcans do not require as much sleep as humans,” he said defensively, straightening up even further so it looked like he had swallowed a broomstick.

“Of course,” Uhura muttered, deciding to drop the subject. She didn’t need to press the matter to know that he hadn’t closed an eye since the chocolate incident.

“What was your meaning?” Spock insisted, fighting a lost battle against his drooping eyebrows and managing to keep a focused gaze for the time being. “How can you know Jim was talking about himself?”

“Well, first of all, I think our Captain has a lot of issues,” Nyota declared matter-of-factly, turning to stare distractedly at the piano as she listed off her reasons, “Second, he’s in too deep to just chicken out right now, so it makes sense to theorize he thinks _you’re_ the one who’ll grow tired.” A smile that was somewhere between sad and amused graced her face before she went on: “He’s transparent in the way he acts around you. Perhaps he’s scared of how much he loves you, don’t you think? Spock?”

A warm weight against her shoulder alerted her to the fact that Spock hadn’t, in fact, heard a word she had said, having chosen that moment to fall dead asleep: his twined fingers had fallen into his lap, and, though he kept his spine as straight as ever, he had turned on his side, so that now his cheek was resting on her arm. He was cute, and Uhura allowed herself one small chuckle. “Look at you silly Vulcan,” she murmured quietly under her breath, “Stubborn fool.”

He had a striking appearance of frailty -he seemed breakable, vulnerable, deceptively so, she was aware, yet she could not fully suppress the rush of protectiveness that nearly overwhelmed her as she sat in silence, listening to him breathe in and out and contemplating just how hard his life had been so far; he had suffered too much, he had lost his mother, his planet, his culture, his identity, and Kirk… Kirk wasn’t making things any easier, really.

She didn’t have much time to ponder the matter, because scant minutes later the Captain himself peeked his head through the sliding doors, looking around with overly bright blue eyes. “Uhura, have you seen…” He trailed off as soon as his gaze landed on the sleeping Vulcan, and for the fraction of a second a cold, hard emotion crossed his face, but it was fleeting and difficult to recognise and gone in a flash. He tiptoed towards them, settling next to his second in command, and raised a questioning glance at Nyota.

Very gingerly, she slid one hand behind Spock’s head and pushed him so he fell against Kirk’s side, careful of not waking him. “All yours,” she said in a light tone, though her eyes spoke volumes, and Jim frowned at her even as his arms went around the Vulcan’s slim waist. “What…?” he began in a whisper.

“How serious are you with this, Kirk?” Uhura asked point-blank, regarding him with a harsh, passionate expression that demanded honesty.

Jim looked down at Spock, threading his fingers through his dark hair to comb it back to perfection, and did not take his eyes off him as he answered: “I’m dead serious. I’m in it for as long as he is.” The words tasted bitter in his mouth, but he managed a smile anyway.

“You’re in it forever, then,” she clarified, and it was in equal parts a warning and a blessing.

“You can’t know that,” he countered, “Nobody can.”

She sighed, resisting the urge to yell or throw something at him. _What a pair of idiots_ , she thought. _Working together to mess up their lives as bad as they can go_. “You know, Kirk, you’ve been more trouble than cure recently.”

“Yeah, that’s what I’m worried about,” he admitted. Before she could reply, he caught the Vulcan by the shoulders and shook him tenderly, murmuring into his ear: “Spock. Hey, Spock, come on, let’s get you into bed, okay? Wake up.”

His eyelids fluttered open and he stared at the human occupying his entire line of sight with something akin to wonder. “Jim,” he greeted, letting his Captain pull him up from his sitting position. “My apologies, Nyota,” he added as he fixed his blue uniform, which had ridden up to his ribs, exposing the black thermal shirt he always wore when aboard the Enterprise. “I had not realised I was this tired.”

“Well, that’s not exactly news, now, Spock,” she teased, moving to return to the piano. “Go on and get some rest. We won’t get to Planet Q in less than three hours.”

Her worried gaze followed them out.

* * *

 

By the time they made it to the Captain’s quarters, the Vulcan was barely standing; Jim helped him out of his uniform and into the sleeping robe he had left earlier on a chair beside the bedside table, then kissed him softly on his temple, pulling away as if to leave. Spock’s fingers curled around his wrist in a gentle grip -had he wanted to, he could have easily shaken them off- and drew him near. Kirk went willingly, sitting on the bed by the pillow and looking expectantly down at him.

His First Officer had closed his eyes already, and in a moment of weakness he murmured: “Do not leave, Jim?” The plea made Jim’s blood run cold, so much was the pain it betrayed, and he nodded and smiled at his companion. “Of course. Of course I’ll stay.”

He disposed of his boots and placed one arm around the Vulcan’s shoulders, letting him rest his head against his thigh and hold his right hand firmly. “That meld-thing with the alien before drained you more than you let on, didn’t it?” Kirk asked, not really expecting an answer.

Spock mumbled an agreement into the fabric of his pants and tightened his fingers around the human’s, mind instinctively reaching for its kin. His t’hy’la’s mental presence was enough to cure the ache pounding his brain, and, quite unlike the doctor’s potions, felt absolutely _amazing_.

“I should have had Bones visit you.”

“Not necessary,” the Vulcan objected drowsily, “This is sufficient.”

“I see. Sleep now, baby.” Once again, Jim carded his fingers through that tauntingly flawless bowl cut, watching Spock absentmindedly as he finally relaxed, features softening in unconsciousness. He loved the way the scientist would entrust himself completely to his care, loved the way he seemed to be constantly searching for his warmth, for his presence. It made him feel worthy, though he was far from it, and the Vulcan certainly gave the impression of believing that they were _meant to be_.

Spock and Nyota had looked good together, before, but in a weird sort of way -they just didn’t _fit_ , and she insisted on babying him too much, acting like a really scary older sister, and plus he had been so miserable when she’d ended it unexpectedly, Jim had known even if it didn’t show -he’d known from a million tiny signs, from how he held himself straighter and how he blinked more than usual and how he sometimes would glance at her on the bridge then back at his own station and how he ordered Plomeek soup, his comfort food, at every meal for more than an entire week, and how when they spoke he looked like he was expecting to be struck…

When the hell had he ever been so attuned to someone? From the very beginning, he’d known that the universe fell into place if Spock was by his side. They complemented each other and it was great and unexpected and right, and how, how could he lose all that?

He tightened his hold around the Vulcan, sliding further down the bed so he could pull him against his chest; Spock huffed a little, shifted until he could burrow his cold nose into the juncture of Jim’s neck, and the human shivered, sighed. _No way. No way I’m losing it. No fucking way_.

* * *

 

“Transfer of supplies planet-side is going smoothly, sir,” Sulu said, looking down at his instruments with his usual aplomb, “45% of cargo already unloaded.”

The Enterprise was safely docked near the one rapidly growing city, and for once her wide view screen opened not in front of endless skies, but above a splendid expanse of drying earth, made darker by the plumbeous clouds looming low, promising rain to wash away the scent of death which had threatened to settle over the buddying colony of Planet Q. Kirk looked upon the landscape with eyes as deep and stormy as an ocean, full of memories that blended easily with the present mission -the scenery was familiar, too familiar, and in its silence burned the cries of those who had passed, cries for vengeance, for justice…

The Captain nodded curtly and turned towards his helmsman, offering a grin that was perhaps a little forced -he knew no one would call him out on this- and clapped his hands once. “Wonderful job, Sulu, Chekov!”

Pavel smiled a little -though he was well over the age of twenty, he still had dimples on that shy, witty face of his- but Hikaru gave him a calculating look before shifting his attention back to the task at hand.

At the Science station, Spock sat perfectly still, no sign of his exhaustion evident if one did not count the subtle way with which he leaned his full weight on his chair, and Jim chuckled under his breath at the sight, exchanging an amused glance with Nyota, who could not suppress a small snort. The Vulcan’s head whipped to the side and he gave her a sharp, murderous glare that she ignored with practiced composure. Kirk’s laughter loudened then: his eyes lit up and the stiff set of his shoulders became less tense, and Spock’s glare reflexively melted away into a raised eyebrow, his lips curving upwards infinitesimally as he submitted to being the butt of the joke.

The Captain smirked, clearly pleased -God, he _loved_ his crew. He felt something inside grow warm at the thought of how much he’d accomplished -how much they’d accomplished; the thought of what the world had expected him to become (wasted, lost, angry, delinquent) and what he was now, standing among people who were both loyal colleagues and trusted friends, making fun of his First Officer, the gentlest soul to ever cross the galaxy.

A loud beeping from Uhura’s station was enough for the easy mood to vanish. “It’s a distress call! They’re hailing us from the city.” The communications officer bit her lip pensively, a frown on her face as she relayed the message: “They need a small team for a rescue mission.”

Kirk’s eyes narrowed, and he brought thumb and forefinger to caress his chin, deep in thought: “Details, Lieutenant.”

Nyota nodded briskly. “One man, Anton Karidian, led a team of volunteers inland for exploration. They request we fetch them as soon as possible.”

“Anton Karidian?” Jim repeated the unfamiliar name, raising from his chair and moving to stand behind her. “A scientist?”

“Negative, sir.” Spock had obviously started researching, and was reading quickly from the computer. “An actor. Arrived at the colony five point eleven weeks ago, began his acting career thirteen years ago.”

The Captain crossed his arms, and his First Officer tilted his head to the side to observe him, examining how his usually golden energy seemed to burn darker, raw and dangerous, how his stance was that of a predator preparing to pounce. “Put a picture of him on screen, Mister Spock.”

“Picture on screen, sir.”

Everyone but the Vulcan turned their attention on the image filling the screen, looking at the magnified photo with mild interest; Spock, however, kept his gaze trailed on his t’hy’la, examining with curiosity and a growing sense of discomfort the murderous coldness etched on his beloved features, listening carefully at his heart beating faster as the human stared at the seemingly ordinary picture of Anton Karidian. There was nothing about him to warrant such a display, and yet… The half-blood could not make sense of the result of his meticulous scrutiny past acknowledging the fact that this was a man Jim most definitely did not plan on rescuing. _Why?_

Kirk broke his reverie by moving quickly across the bridge towards the doors of the turbolift: he was already issuing his next orders. “Uhura, call Sickbay, I want McCoy ready to join rescue party. We’ll take the Galileo III, alert maintenance to have her ready on the double and send them the coordinates for Karidian’s whereabouts, then report for duty. Chekov, you’re with us.” He took half a steadying breath. “Mister Spock…” he began, only to be interrupted briskly by the Vulcan, who in the meanwhile had made his way towards him, slowly but efficiently. “Requesting permission to join rescue party, sir,” he said, staring intently at him.

A battle of wills ensued, one that Spock was determined to win -he could not, would not let Jim go alone when he was clearly so troubled, so distressed; mistakes happened all the time, did they not? He was not willing to take chances, not if his t’hy’la’s life was at stake, not if neglecting to accompany him could result in him dying or being severely injured.

 _You said you would trust me_ , brown eyes communicated silently, _it is time to prove it_.

For a moment, the golden energy surrounding the human took on a distinctly frozen quality, the taste of refusal, of bitter fear, then he set his jaw and crossed his arms in a defensive stance, yielding to the Vulcan’s request even as he made it transparent he did not welcome him by his side, not this time. _Why?_

“Very well. Mister Sulu, you have the conn. If we are not back within the hour, beam down a landing party of eight security guards.”

“Yes, sir.” Sulu went to sit in the Captain’s chair, face stony, betraying nothing of his thoughts, but Nyota and Pavel exchanged a tense glance even as they followed their command team inside the turbolift.

“Is strange, da?” Chekov whispered in her ear. She nodded, watching Spock as he stood just a few inches closer than what was strictly necessary (and just a few millimetres shy of hovering) to his Captain, whose eyes were fixed into the void, steel-hard and full of cautiously-contained rage.

“Yes. Very strange indeed,” she murmured back.

* * *

 

Spock came to with a grimace, instantly becoming aware of several things at once: first, he was sitting on a cold floor with his hands tied behind his back and to a thick metallic pole; second, Nyota was unconscious and her head was reclining against his shoulder, neck bent at a worrying angle -he shifted immediately so she slid down by two and a half inches, and turned his attention toward Third, namely the doctor, who, too, was out cold, blood dripping down his left cheek and lower lip; and fourth, most alarmingly, Jim was nowhere to be seen.

Memories of past events floated back into his slightly confused mind by bits and pieces, and he hurried to fit them together like a disturbing puzzle, one which shifted his perception of what his t’hy’la was, because if his suppositions were right (and how could they not be?), then Jim…

But he would reflect on that at a later, more appropriate time.

As it was becoming the outcome of 75.09% of their rescue missions, they had landed themselves directly into an ambush -and strangely enough this time Kirk had not seemed at all surprised to be received with such hostilities, when usually he was the last to ever suspect ill intentions. They had been engaged into a fight against ten nameless people -humans, heavily armed- and just before being stunned, Spock had seen…

He had seen a tall, bearded man -Anton Karidian- walk up to Jim and smile a wide, sadistic smile, which the Captain had answered with a snarl and an attempt to jump at his throat. And he had said…

He had called that man…

Kodos.

All this occurred to Spock in exactly 13.57 seconds. He blinked twice, looked about the place they were locked in to discover it was an enclosed area in the back of the smallest exploratory ship ever designed; no one was in sight, and there were no sounds of heartbeats or breathing except for those belonging to the two humans leaning against his sides. Gingerly, he elbowed the doctor in the ribs, and almost at once his blue eyes flashed open and he groaned a quiet curse.

“Dammit, Spock!” he hissed, “I’ve got a bruise the size of Minnesota right there!” He shuffled around a bit, ignoring the Vulcan’s raised eyebrow, then cast a glance at Nyota -who had yet to move- and gave a sharp pull at his restraints, making the pole jiggle infinitesimally. “How is she? Can you wake her?” he asked urgently, eyeing the medi-kit laying discarded mere feet from them.

Spock cocked his head to the side so he could press his cheek against her warm forehead and closed his eyes to concentrate: “She hit her head, but is not concussed. I believe she will wake up soon.” He broke the contact and focused on freeing his hands; whomever had them bound, obviously did not know precisely how strong his species was compared to humans, thus he was confident he could break the knot in less than ten minutes. “Doctor, if I could ask you some questions?”

McCoy turned his gaze on him and it turned into a withering look: “Does it seem like the right time for a quiz?” he growled, “Shouldn’t you be working on getting us the hell outta here?”

The Science Officer’s eyebrow flew up and he gave a quick, condescending nod. “That is precisely what I am doing,” he declared calmly, “However, as I am Vulcan, my mind can concentrate on multiple things simultaneously, an ability you have evidently yet to master.” Then he added, drowning out the doctor’s angry retort at his snarky remark by raising his voice a little, “I have a theory, and I wish for you to either validate or disprove it.”

He slid his nail repeatedly into the rope tying his wrists together to hasten the process of weakening it, and fixed Leonard with his best _this-is-a-serious-matter-and-you-will-attend-to-it_ look. The human shrugged, the usual air of resigned suffering about his face, but he capitulated: “Fine. Bring it on.”

Spock took a slow breath through his nose, choosing to go straight to the point, avoiding the unnecessary trouble of embellishing a truth that could not, in any way, be made to appear less atrocious than it was: “Captain Kirk is the one survivor of the genocide of Tarsus IV. Is he not, doctor?”

McCoy paled, and the Vulcan noted a slight increase in the speed of his breathing, possibly due to stress; when he said nothing, seemingly torn between speaking and keeping quiet, the First Officer of the Enterprise straightened his back -the cold metal of the pole dug uncomfortably against his spine, but he ignored it- and craned his neck to the side so he could gaze intently into the human’s eyes to measure his expression for clues as he listed off his reasons for making such a blunt assumption.

“He has been restless and troubled ever since we have been assigned this mission to prevent the famine on Planet Q; he has displayed all signs of a man keeping a heavy, dangerous secret; he has been preparing for battle where there should have been none; he recognised the features of Kodos the Executioner in the person of Anton Karidian.” Unblinking, immobile but for his working fingers, Spock relayed his conclusion with the bearing of one who already knew he was right, and was merely seeking confirmation: “There is one way only he could have become acquainted with the Governor of Tarsus IV: by living there during the famine and surviving the genocide which followed.” He paused for the fraction of a second. “Am I wrong, doctor? Am I wrong?”

Leonard was quiet for a long time, and the Vulcan held his eyes, feeling as though he was undergoing some sort of test, as though he had to _earn_ the answer he would be granted… “Hell, Spock, so you figured it out.” The human chewed on his lip, uncharacteristically indecisive, and then he shook his head in surrender: “Alright, you win, I’ll tell you.”

Spock nodded slowly, noticing that the first string of rope had begun to give beneath the relentless pressure of his nails. He had had no doubt that the doctor was in on the secret: he had realised soon -very soon- that to Jim, he was some sort of surrogate family (father, mother, brother when needed) an ally to whom the Captain had entrusted himself almost blindly. The Vulcan longed to share such a deep connection with his t’hy’la, but Kirk resisted him, staying closed off and distant. _Why?_

“Yes, Jim was on Tarsus. And before you ask, I know because he told me long ago at the Academy. He also said you really couldn’t know, so please let’s keep this under wraps.”

“I will do no such thing, doctor,” Spock hissed coldly, “I intend to address the matter as soon as we are safely on the Enterprise. Such secrecy…”

“Shut it!” McCoy growled, eyes flashing dangerously, “You are in no position to talk! How come you never meld? What’s the big secret _you_ ’re hiding?”

The First Officer’s already pale face went stony, shuttered. “That should be of no concern to you.”

“I’m your damn doctor, of course it’s of my concern! Now tell me what’s the matter with you and why on earth…”

“Jim would not welcome me in his mind,” Spock admitted softly as he snapped his bindings with a quick jerk of his wrists. His hands went automatically around Nyota’s shoulders to steady her as she immediately fell forwards; gently, he freed her and laid her with infinite care at the doctor’s feet, then he moved to work on the ropes holding the CMO against the pole. “I do desire a meld. But it is quite clear that Jim is nowhere near ready for that kind of an intimate, personal connection. He does not trust me enough.”

Leonard kneeled next to Uhura as soon as he could, retrieving his medi-kit in a flash; Spock watched with grudging admiration the ease and confidence with which he conducted his examination of the unconscious woman.

“He’s afraid _you_ ’d bail,” McCoy said curtly, preparing a Hypo for the comms officer. “That’s why he didn’t tell you about Tarsus.”

The Vulcan, who had taken to roaming the enclosed area in search for weapons, paused for a second and frowned minutely, processing the new information: “That… would be most illogical. If anything, it would only serve to reinforce my positive regard of him.” _T’hy’la_.

Leonard snorted. “Of _course_ , Spock,” he sneered condescendingly, voice sickeningly sweet, “Never thought the time would come when I’d see a besotted Vulcan, but there it is. Now the world is at its end.”

Openly ignoring his last statement, the Commander walked to the locked door and very slowly, with a low, screeching sound of metal being crushed, forced it open enough that they could go through. Then, relinquishing the idea of being armed, he turned towards the doctor to give him his orders: “Once you have risen Lieutenant Uhura, please find the means of contacting Mister Chekov. I want the shuttle ready to leave at the shortest notice. I shall locate the Captain.” He made to leave.

“Wait, Spock!” McCoy called him back, worry in his tone evident even to an impatient Vulcan; Spock dipped his head in a deliberate motion to show he understood: “There is no time.”

“Be careful.”

“I always endeavour to do so, doctor.”

* * *

 

The dirt smelled exactly like last time; dry, burnt, a rich scent that went straight through his nostrils and made his blood boil, boil with the heat of a thousand ugly memories brought to the surface so quickly it was nearly dizzying. Suddenly there were faces obscuring his vision, and the cold touch of bony fingers trailing down his neck… voices calling his name. Panting, Kirk pushed himself back up on his feet, distractedly taking account of his cuts and bruises while his eyes didn’t leave, even for a moment, the yellow stare of the man who had been in his life for no more than ten minutes and yet had left so permanent a mark.

Kodos the Executioner laughed cruelly as he stood waiting for him to collect himself, to attack again; he was holding a weapon that was not really a phaser, and not entirely legal either, pointed at the Captain’s chest with a steady hand but a lousy grip. He shot, and Kirk fell again to the ground, grunting out a muffled cry of pain as a crude wave of electricity cursed through his veins, stealing his breath. His teeth clicked together as he set his jaw in a display of stubborn superiority and forced his legs to respond to his brain, pulling his knees under his belly -his feet scrambled helplessly for purchase for a few seconds- until he could once more raise his arms beneath his chest and push himself upright. Then he stared defiantly up at the face he so deeply despised, feeling the scorching fire of his endless hatred fill him until nothing but its demanding fury remained, burning out every other thought, everything that Jim had been before and after those months of famine and pity and pain.

“You did say you’d go down with a fight,” Kodos mocked him, aiming for his wrist, maybe with the intention of breaking it; his eyes glinted in twisted delight as he saw Kirk dodge the silver beam and roll down on the grainy earth, for a moment prostrated at his feet.

“I stand by what I said,” Jim growled, sliding gracefully away from his tormentor and towards the steep precipice mere meters from them. The fallen Governor followed him, drawn by his weakened, lost appearance, that act of innocence he had perfected over the years, and in doing so he distanced himself from his faithful pack of psychopaths and derelicts, from the safety of their loyal guns, walking right into Kirk’s trap with every step he took.

As he crawled between sharp pebbles and blackened twigs, he smelled the dirt again (that strong, unforgiving odour surrounded him, pervading his every cell, making his guts turn and his stomach clench in an attempt at keeping what little was left inside it) and just like that it was as if his aching bones, his heaving body were entirely _gone_ , surrendered to a jumble of scenes and impressions from a past that clung to him as white dressing clung to its ancient mummy.

_Serena’s warm, brown eyes gently caress his own before sliding down to his hand that’s feeding her a piece of charred meat from the skinny rabbit he and the kids have manged to catch; she is one year younger than Jim and about the toughest, bravest person he’s ever known, a leader to her chore, but she has fallen ill, and there is no medicine, nothing they can do but watch her slowly wither out and die… she is thinner, her cheeks are hollower than any of the others’, she barely stands on legs that would not support her and it’s the Kelvin boy who takes her place, who carries her on his back when she cannot walk…_

_“You’ve got to leave me behind,” she insists in her beautiful Indian accent and he shakes his head…_

He shook his head firmly, planting his fingers into the dirt and chocking down the urge to vomit as he inched closer to the cliff. “Damn you, Kodos,” he hissed, resisting the impulse to jump at his throat in a foolish move that would do nothing but kill him; if he so much as touched the man, he’d be shot by his minions. He needed to control himself and lure _Karidian_ ( _How dare he take a new name, how dare he start a new life after what he’d done?_ ) to his death, because of course he was going to kill him (he would spill his blood as he had spilled the blood of his kids). “Why this? Why now?” he rasped, as a means of distraction.

He took a calculated risk when he let Kodos’s next shot successfully hit his shoulder, and he arched his back in pain as he clutched at his trembling arm and gasped, overstressing his reaction to reinforce the image of defeated weakness he wished to convey, then waited for the madman’s answer, genuinely curious. Ripples of cold energy trickled through his bones, and he hissed softly, not wanting to be heard…

_Jim sits surrounded by a circle of children, Serena’s head resting in his lap as he tells them a story to keep their minds busy and away from the horror all around them; their eyes shine, fixed on his face with the intensity only infants are capable of, their tiny noses wrinkle occasionally when the wind brings whiffs of smoke and the smell of rotten corpses inside their little hidden cave. In the underground, in the woods, people have started feeding off the dead in their crazy desperation, but not his kids, not them, he’d sooner kill them himself… Those who have evaded Kodos’s guards are perishing one by one, dying slow, painful, inhuman deaths, yet Jim has seen them, the Rich Ones, the Good Ones, those Worthy of Survival, he’s seen them eat plenty and drink and don’t care…_

“It was about time I finished what I started,” Kodos said, eyes following the trail of blood dripping down Kirk’s neck with an air of profound satisfaction. “You need be wiped from this world before I begin living again.”

Jim coughed violently into the reddish sand, clenched his hands into tight fists. “You don’t deserve to live again,” he groaned, “Not after what you’ve done.”

Kodos raised an eyebrow, and damn if that gesture brought all kinds of new definitions to the word _wrong_. Kirk hated him even more for it. “And you do? You survived because others were killed, the same as everyone else. Just like me.”

The young Captain closed his eyes and tasted blood in his mouth.

_He knows the story they wish to hear, it’s always the same, the tale of the immense Romulan ship and of the hero who sacrificed himself to save his crew and his wife and his son, and he knows his children, his family, have begun to see George Kirk in him, and wonder if he, too, will be the hero, if he’ll save them, if he’ll guide them out of the famine and into a new life. They think his father was brave, that he was exceptional, but they don’t understand, they don’t understand that in cases like his there is simply no choice, no choice at all, when it’s you or them you choose them, always…_

_Jim knows this as well, and tells his dad’s story as if it were his._

“I’m doing this for my daughter, James Kirk,” Kodos murmured, moving to kick the Captain in the ribs; he let him, and used the backlash from the hit to roll almost on the edge of the precipice: stealing a glance down, he felt a rush of adrenaline at the sight of what awaited him, but it was fleeting and meaningless. There was no time for fear, no time for finding his breath -he heard the sharp sound of a thin bone cracking yet it was as if it belonged to someone else… “And you killed all the others like this?” he panted, very carefully shifting his weight to his toes, waiting for the moment when he would jump, end it all, end _Kodos_ and the flurry of memories slowly driving him crazy.

“More or less, yes.” Another shot pierced Kirk’s wounded shoulder, but no sound came out of his mouth, nothing but an empty, derisive laugh that morphed into a gurgle when he spit blood on the ground. _What a fitting sight_ , he mused. “And your whole ‘painless death’ policy, where did it go?”

“I changed my mind.”

_Jim runs and runs, clutching to his chest the Hypos and synthetized food he has managed to steal at the cost of a burning wound on his back, a black and pulsing eye, and the life of his faithful dog; he runs and runs through the woods even though his lungs feel like bursting and his legs are numb and pierced by needles and all he really wants is to crawl into the mess of twigs and dirt and turn into a puddle of nothing. He runs because he can hear the guards scream and they are close to the refuge, and his debilitating hunger is forgotten at the thought of what they could do to his kids. In a rush, he slips behind the thick curtain of dead ivy and nearly flies into the cave, only to find it empty, eerily quiet. He looks around frantically, and jumps when a soft voice made weak by illness and incoming death calls his name. “Jim?”_

_Serena’s still there. He kneels beside her, and his wrist is immediately encircled by shaking bones barely held together by the thinnest layer of skin and tendons. Her eyes -too wide, too bright, too alive for a face that seems risen from the grave, they are the one thing left unchanged by her malady- are haunted as he looks at him: “I told them… to run… The guards… are following… Go, Jim, go!”_

_The boy bares his teeth in helpless fury, the pain of his wounds loses meaning if compared to what could be… Gently, he reaches out to the girl’s long, now-white neck (for the illness has leached away the beautiful golden colour of her once smooth skin) and sprays the Hypo firmly; she winces but she smiles: even if she is beyond saving, it doesn’t mean he can’t relieve her from her suffering. “I’m not leaving you behind,” Jim murmurs, scooping her up in his arms so he can slide her on his back; once his shoulders and back are gripped by skinny arms and legs and he is certain she will not fall, he starts running again, out of the safety of the cave and into the ghost of the luxurious woods he had loved so much before the famine._

_“I’ll never leave you behind, Serena.”_

_He hears her sigh and tremble, but she does not cry, squeezing him faintly with what little strength she has left, and she kisses his cheek with her chapped, cold lips and doesn’t reply._

Kirk was out of breath, from the pain and the hatred and the half-imagined hunger that was making his stomach churn, and as he pressed his palms flat into the dirt he stared at Kodos, at the pale scar crossing his jaw from where he’d wounded him thirteen years before, at his eyes of ice, the eyes of a madman, the eyes of a killing machine. _I’m bringing you to hell with me_.

This was not a no-win scenario. He knew that, however he recognised perfectly well he would die (there was, like, ninety-nine point periodic nine possibility over a hundred) but he would eradicate Kodos from the face of the Galaxy, plus the famine was abated and the planet was safe and it wouldn’t take too long for his hostage people to break free: Spock was smart, the smartest in fact, he would find a way, and so would the others. Jim was sure. He wondered what the Vulcan would do, once he found him dead -no doubt he’d already figured everything out; would he be angry at him, curse his name and damn the day they had met, like Bones would? Or would he mourn in silence as he had done for his mother and planet, quietly going about his business as if life was unchanged but for the sadness present in his every gesture, in his every word? Or would he perhaps break into a fit of rage like he had with Khan and wreak havoc among Kodos’s minions, tearing them apart one by one until nothing remained but death and vengeance?

Be it as it may, Kirk would die, and it was the reasonable price to pay for his revenge and for the safety of planet Q, wasn’t it? No-win scenarios did not exist, he knew, it was simply a matter of how much you’re willing to sacrifice, of price and prize, and he, as his father before him, had chosen.

Again, he thought of Spock, tried to picture the look his too-human eyes would get, afterwards; they were always so clean, so transparent, betraying him, revealing his feelings to the careful observer, and he knew it would show, he knew it would shame him greatly and profoundly to present himself as vulnerable, knew that for the sake of his memory, for the sake of star-crossed love he would refuse not to feel… And love would be his undoing.

_The guards are everywhere, surrounding them, eight men and women looking down at hungry, desperate children and seeing nothing but dangerous individuals, for there is not a soul on Tarsus who does not know of Jim Kirk and his antics, Jim Kirk and his pack of sneaky children, Jim Kirk and all he does and gives and takes to keep them alive and protected, Jim Kirk who at the age of twelve has learned to steal because no law can tell you you must die, has learned to kill because no life is worth saving by sacrificing twenty others, has learned to let strangers touch him and possess him because survival demands it and food is worth this offering of self and he does it willingly but hates them, hates them, hates them…!_

_He dodges the deadly rays of the guard’s phasers with expertise, and it seems as though Serena’s getting heavier by the minute, but he won’t let her go, he won’t let her go, he can’t, he can’t… Another kiss falls behind his ear, and he feels her grip begin to loosen so he holds on harder –“Serena!”_

_“I love you, Jim,” she whispers gently, “Thank you for existing… Don’t let them take you or the others.”_

_Panic strikes him for the first time since the day he heard Kodos’s orders, and as he hides behind a tree he fights her efforts to free herself. “No, Serena, no, don’t!”_

_He is weakened by the blood spreading slowly all over his back, and finally she manages to snap his fingers open and rolls down into the ground, then she’s giving him this soft, tender look with her big brown eyes and she’s running away as fast as she can, among the guards, and Jim lounges for her but he’s too late, and his nails barely scratch her elbow and she’s gone…_

_“Serena!”_

_It doesn’t take them that long to kill her; one shot and she is laying, graceful even in death, into the ground, and Kirk’s first impulse is to let himself fall down too and die as well, but he can’t, because she wished for him to live… She was his first love and then and there he vows she’ll be the last, for the hurt and despair that are wrenching his soul apart are too much for him to bear again. Never again, never again…_

_He should have listened to her when she told him not to love her, that rainy day resting into the mud as the rain fell above them, the day of their first kiss -too fast, too soon, but wasn’t life slipping away quick as lightning? Affection and sorrow and loneliness merged into that kiss and for a moment it was perfect, but who were they kidding? She was one step from death’s door, and he was no doctor to save her…_

_Now Jim doesn’t cry, doesn’t even scream his lungs out until there is no more voice to speak of his grief; he simply bares his teeth and pushes a woman away to sneak down a gentle slide only for a kid to thread on. The children, he has to find the children! He leaves Serena’s body behind, and it’s the hardest thing to do, but he can’t help it._

Kirk snarled, collecting his strength, and finally, finally, he jumped, taking Kodos by surprise with his unexpected display of swift agility: the Governor’s gun flew down the precipice when the Captain knocked it out of his hand, and they fell into a heap just by the slim border between life and death… Jim kicked and punched with expertise, moving too fast for his opponent to even think about reacting; his men were crowding closer to the fight, but Kirk knew they wouldn’t dare shoot him for fear of hitting their master, and he took full advantage of that weakness by carefully keeping himself at least half-hidden behind Karidian’s body at all times.

He just had to push him over the edge…

Blood was spilling from his mouth and his broken ribs creaked with his every move, yet the Captain lived into a suspended state of non-feeling, quiet but for the fires of his pitch-black hatred, and pain was the furthest thing from his mind. He growled and hissed with the effort of dragging the resisting weight of a man taller than he, and the dirt was suddenly wet, blessedly wet, tinted a rich red, turning slippery…

Winding his arms around Kodos’s torso and not allowing himself to think of what was to come, he took a steadying breath and launched himself into the void. The fall was immediately halted by the Governor’s futile resistance, for he was holding on and so was Jim, but Jim would let go, he would let go and kick away from the solid rock that was the only thing keeping them alive and he would plunge them into eternal darkness.

_“Is this all of them?” a voice asks, and Jim’s blood crawls. Kneeling into the dried humus, he makes his way towards the clearing where he can barely make out, if he squints his eyes, tiny corpses scattered around and a flock of guards surrounding one tall man he would recognise everywhere… Kodos. It’s Kodos and he’s killed the children._

_He breaks into a run._

_“Kirk’s missing,” a woman says, nudging a body with her boot to turn it so the face’s exposed. “The others are dead.”_

_Jim is too late, too late, too late, too late, and why is he still alive, why does he survive, why, why, he is unworthy, unworthy because he’s failed, failed so utterly and completely he feels crushed, the weight of his guilt like a mountain bearing upon his tiny bony shoulders… And when he’s close enough, he searches the ground and finds a sharp rock and it is but a sliver of what he has inside - it will suffice, it will suffice… He raises his arm and throws the projectile at Kodos’s face, his aim perfect even though his eyes are covered by a thin film of tears, and it splits his jaw open as the Governor jumps in pain and surprise and Jim laughs out loud, and his laughter sounds carefree and beautiful regardless of what he’s been through, regardless of the dark cloud of murderous wishes settling inside his chest…_

_He runs amid the guards and screams and pushes, and he doesn’t know if it’s the adrenalin or his skill or maybe sheer luck but none of their shots hit him, he feels invincible and indestructible and as far away from life and reality as can be. “I won’t go down without a fight! Fight me, fight me, fight me scum you murderers I hate you kill you fight me you disgust me I’ll see your blood on the earth how dare you take my friends fight me fight me fight me cowards using phasers against kids fight me fight me…” It has become a chant and he swears he can see his sanity slipping away and he wants to die but they can’t kill him, he can’t let them…_

_Then a call breaks the charm, a call saying Starfleet’s here, Starfleet’s brought supplies, too late, too late, they are too late but Kodos’s men are frightened and they flee and in the blink of an eye they are gone, gone._

_Their last, desperate shot at him hits him partway and he finally falls into the ground and the last thing he’s aware of is the smell of dirt mixed with sweat and blood._

“Give up and die, Kodos,” Kirk grunted as he held on tighter to his neck, trying to suffocate him somehow. He could see the tendons stand out in the Governor’s hand, trembling with the effort of keeping him attached to the ground, and he knew it would be a matter of seconds before he would let go… “Your time has passed. You should have died thirteen years ago.”

* * *

 

Spock stopped dead in his tracks as he beheld the sight laid out before him, and icy dread settled in his veins, making his eyes go wide and his mind screech to a halt and his heart beat faster in preparation of a fight that would never happen… Because this time, he was powerless. _T’hy’la…_

Jim dangled from a precipice, stubbornly wrapped around a man that could be no other than Kodos, and the Vulcan found himself wishing for once that his Captain would lose his battle and let the Executioner return them both back up to safety… He rushed towards them, moving at full speed, drawing a wide circle around Karidian’s armed people who would certainly shoot him on sight, and he wondered if he could make it in time to catch Kirk when he fell…

He could not.

But to live in a world where t’hy’la did not exist… It was far, far too soon for that: he knew the time would come when he would have to withstand such tremendous grief -he had seen it already etched on the deep lines of his counterpart’s elder face, he had seen it in the gentle, sorrowful look in his eyes, heard it in the ever-so-slightly broken quality of his voice… He had failed to recognise it before because he had been ignorant of the truth, but now he was painfully aware and did not wish to taste that bitter sadness, did not wish to mourn the loss of his one and only soulmate after having spent so brief a time with him, merely a blink if compared with a human life span…

 _Jim… Jim!_ “Jim!” At the risk of attracting everyone’s attention and probably signing his death warrant, Spock called out for the human who seemed so intent on sacrificing himself for… for vengeance of all things. But Jim was his, _his_ , and he would not let him, he would _never_ let him, he had to stop him… “Jim! Captain!” It came out as a plea more than anything, yet for once he was not nearly as ashamed as he should have been… “Jim!”

Kirk’s eyes zeroed in on him and for a moment of stillness where even time appeared to be suspended, they looked at each other. Jim felt his breath catch in his throat as he gazed into the Vulcan’s wide, crystal clear eyes, recognising in them the ghost of what once was and the image of what might become, and he wondered how it could be that Spock was the exception to his every rule, for he had vowed _‘never again’_ yet here he was, allowing himself to hope for a new beginning even on the verge of death…

And suddenly his haze of blind hatred broke and vanished, and he finally _saw_ , saw the Vulcan’s fierce expression that _demanded_ he lived and knew he owed him as much, knew he had to survive, for his sake and for the sake of his crew, because they cared, and he couldn’t go down without a fight, couldn’t just _give up_ … He groaned and snapped his fingers around Kodos’s wrists, prying them open and kicking his face as he began to fall, then used the momentum to drag himself over the edge and once again into the dirt. With a loud scream, the Governor was lost into the void, but Kirk barely heard his cries, looking at Spock’s ashen face as he ran towards him. _Funny, how the tables have turned,_ he thought.

For now he was the one to whisper “Go, get safe,” and smile a painful, sad smile before darkness enveloped him and he was gone.

“Jim!” Spock threw himself at the Captain in time to snatch him away from the humans who had surrounded him and wetted his fingers with his rich, scalding blood. “Jim!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, this is officially over! I apologise for the cliff-hanger but I really liked it and couldn’t think of another way for this to end. I put aside the music-lyre part of the arc (but not entirely) for now, but don’t worry, I’ll get around to that next chapter! Also, for Jim’s flashbacks I used a different technique than I usually do, because I really wanted to give the impression that they were merging and existing into his reality, mixing ‘then’ and ‘now’.   
> And please, don't blame Jim too much for his treatment of Spock; he's trying his best to protect him, the poor thing!  
> I hope you liked this chapter as well and wish to offer my warmest thanks to all of you who have read, followed, left kudos or a comment! You’re awesome and I love you!


	11. Quiet

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Foolish Jim,” he snarled, leaning down to press his forehead against his Captain’s and purposefully ignoring his startled attempts at putting some space between them. “As if I would ever wish to leave you. As if I would ever desire anything other than you. As if I would ever think any less of you because you survived a genocide of all things.”
> 
> “Spock…” Kirk tried, but his companion was having none of it.
> 
> “Be silent, k’diwa,” he ordered, landing a quick kiss on his temple before he pulled away enough to whisper: “You are an amazing person, Jim, but you are also a fool, and I have grown quite tired of this attitude of yours.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here’s part three of the Tarsus arc! But sweet lovely Spock is back to pine after his Jim! And… the first part of the series ends thus!
> 
> Enjoy!

**_11_ **

**_Quiet_ **

 

Spock’s fingers twitched as he wrapped them around Jim’s shoulders in a bruising grip, breathing against his pale face; the Vulcan’s eyes were wide open and trailed on the men rapidly approaching, reducing their already non-existent chances of survival by 10% with every step they took, every angry shout that passed from one to the other.

 _I was too late_ , the science officer thought, shivering from the freezing, wet wind that had risen above them. _I have failed_. He was unarmed, outnumbered, alone: with his Captain unconscious and probably dying from blood loss and internal trauma, he was powerless and could do nothing but stay there, crouched into the crimson dirt, shielding his t’hy’la’s body with his own in a foolish attempt at delaying his inevitable death… The human’s heartbeat was the only thing he heard, loud and so strangely _slow_ -both alien and familiar- and he focused on its even, rhythmic sound, building his walls and shields around it to centre his mind, to keep himself collected and _together_ in those interminable seconds as he waited for the end.

His hands slid up to cup Jim’s soft cheeks, and he was instantly enveloped by the low thrum of freely flowing thoughts, pleasing and beautiful and terribly dynamic when they coiled close -too close- to his own. He almost gave in to temptation and started a meld without permission, just to plunge once more into the oasis that was his t’hy’la’s mind, but he controlled the urge, because it wasn’t right, to steal from him for his selfish needs…

A menacing growl built in the back of his throat as the metallic whizz of a phaser reached his ears, and he readied himself for the blow that was sure to come…

Except it did not. Instead, a high, melodious voice filled the air, greeted by a loud litany of profanities, and Spock looked up in time to see Nyota’s frightening glare before she ducked to avoid falling under the weight of the man she had just shot. “Take that, dickhead,” she muttered angrily, with the barest hint of self-satisfaction, and then she was already aiming a kick at the first woman in sight.

Behind her came the doctor, bearing two phasers; he stayed clear of the fight, and the Vulcan understood why only when he succeeded in joining him by the Captain’s unmoving body: the human squatted down next to him, glanced at his friend for a brief instant, then slid one of his weapons into the First Officer’s hand. “I want him on the shuttle, asap,” he ordered quickly, “Chekov’s gonna be here in a matter of minutes, now move, move, get out the way!” He gave him a heavy push on the back.

Spock blinked. “I calculate the chances of you both surviving this to be less than…” he started to say, even as he bent to scoop Jim up in his arms effortlessly -the weight of a human, no matter how fit, would always be negligible to him, they were so fragile and they didn’t even realise it- and armed his phaser.

“Captain’s safety comes first and you know it, _go_!” McCoy got up and shot a man dead in the heart, effectively diverting the laser beam he had directed at Uhura. She flashed him a wide smile and soon they were fighting back to back, twin expressions of deep focus painted on their faces.

As he broke into a swift run, the Vulcan aimed at two men and a woman, evening out the odds of the fight; then, without looking back, he made his retreat, nearly flying over the dusty ground in his haste to get Kirk where he could receive at least basic medical attention. The rain that had started to fall was cold and unpleasant, drenching his clothes, blurring his vision, making his eyelashes stick together with every blink, yet he could have been running upon desert sand at the speed he was moving.

It was only seven point twelve minutes later, when he boarded the shuttlecraft under Chekov’s concerned gaze, that he allowed himself to feel a fraction of the exhaustion threatening to overwhelm him, and even then, he paid it no mind, crouching down with Jim’s head rested safely on his thighs as he hovered a tricorder over him and improvised the doctor for the time being.

“You look _terreeble_ , sir,” the navigator quipped, expertly manoeuvring the shuttle so it soared right above the fight. “How’s the _Keptin_?”

“I believe he shall survive,” Spock said flatly, carding his fingers through wet golden hair in an unconscious attempt at warming them somewhat. His teeth had begun to chatter and he let them, far too tired to even try and regulate his inner temperature. Wrenching himself away from Jim, the Vulcan slid smoothly towards the door and keyed it open so he could peer outside. It was as if he had just willingly put his head under a very heavy waterfall, and he was momentarily blinded by the still-unfamiliar rain. _Why_ couldn’t it have been a desert planet? How could humans prosper under such severe, unforgiving weather conditions?

Nyota and McCoy (the latter grumbling foul insults directed alternatively at the storm and at Kodos) were rapidly approaching the Galileo III, having successfully defeated their opponents, and both appeared to be mostly uninjured. He helped them up and shut the doors as soon as they were safely inside, then resumed his position kneeling beside Kirk’s head. “What about them?” Uhura asked, staring worriedly at the tips of his ears which had taken on the sickly greenish hue that preceded hypothermia. “Most of them are still alive.”

“We shall beam down a team of security guards,” the Vulcan answered slowly, to avoid the likely risk of biting his tongue and also because he was quite busy monitoring the doctor’s actions and his reactions at Jim’s critical conditions. “As s-soon as we reach the Enterprise.”

Without having to be told, Chekov brought the shuttle to full speed and raised the temperature by twelve degrees.

* * *

 

Jim was bedridden for seven days, and Spock nearly spent the whole duration of the week sitting by his side, leaving exclusively when he was on duty or returning to his quarters to either change or shower, and eating only when McCoy shoved a tray of food under his nose accompanied by threats and profanities. After thirty-six hours, the doctor had grown accustomed to his silent, watchful presence, and did not jump anymore if the Vulcan suddenly spoke after long pauses or shifted unexpectedly in his plastic chair. Once, he walked in on him deeply asleep with his head neatly reclined against his crossed arms, very close to the Captain’s shoulder -a deeply touching scene he had witnessed far too many times; two years before, he would have woken him and shooed him away to get some much-needed R&R, but now things had changed, and he simply retrieved a blanket from his medical supplies to let it fall around him, quietly cursing the damn hobgoblin who wouldn’t know what was best for him if it kicked him in the face.

Kirk -or rather, _Spock_ got a lot of visitors during his faithful vigil. Chekov came by often, usually to talk science with the officer he regarded as some sort of infallible miracle-worker (“Seriously, Pointy, you _infected_ the kid,”) but also to chat excitedly about the ship’s latest gossip; that was when Leonard noticed how fond of Pavel the half-blood really was, for he clearly couldn’t have cared less which illogical human created what unnecessary fuss, yet he let the young navigator go on and on about _zhis_ and _zhat_ and even made encouraging contributions to the conversation.

It was a little creepy, hearing a Vulcan of all people inquire as to whether Ensign Stavrou was emotionally invested in Lieutenant Kular, but he found he could cope, once he got over the initial shock.

Sulu’s visits were more sporadic (after all, if Spock was in Sickbay, it probably meant _he_ had the conn) but more engaging as well: the botanist brought down holos of all the veggies they were growing in the greenhouse, and they spent hours discussing things like the _increase in the production of spores_ and the _amount of oxygen released_ and getting overly enthusiastic if the plant’s pigmentation _appeared to be significantly brighter than two point six days ago_ (to quote the Vulcan) because it meant it was _turning into one very strong lady_ (Hikaru’s words). The helmsman even tried to sneak some ugly, spiked _thing_ he insisted on calling _safe_ into the room so his play-mate could inspect it, but McCoy refused to even allow it behind the threshold, on the grounds that it might (surely would) cause Jim an allergic reaction. To the doctor’s immense satisfaction, the potentially harmful shrub had to be taken away, for Spock would not be moved from his perch on the edge of Kirk’s bed, so busy he was monitoring his ragged breathing as he slept. Leonard was proud to claim his Sickbay was, and would always be, allergen-free.

Scotty popped in and out occasionally to offer them a drink of Scotch (which Spock politely refused and McCoy gladly accepted), to check on the Captain’s progress (he was healing but it would take time and patience, so the CMO was keeping him heavily sedated to avoid complications), to give the Vulcan long, thoroughly detailed status reports (the kind he most preferred), or to ask permission to mess with the ship’s engines. The Acting Captain was always cautious to approve of the Chief Engineer’s wild plans, but he listened with great courtesy and interest as he listed them off, and again Leonard noted that much had changed since they’d first boarded the Enterprise: Spock was still severe and unyielding, but he was also kind when he turned him down, taking care not to deliver a curt, unforgiving denial and instead choosing to present changes of his own or at the very least gently reminding the human that this was only the twenty-third century, after all.

Uhura came by every evening, bringing her dinner and some soft music to listen to, and simply sat next to Spock for a while as they ate; they hardly even spoke, seemingly content to share their silence made of white noise, and the few times McCoy had joined them he’d found himself caught too in the strange relaxed atmosphere. It was a Vulcan thing, Nyota had good-naturedly explained to him when asked, to simply exist in the same space, forming the lightest of links for the shortest of periods by just being _close_. It was an easy and pleasant way to respect a culture that was unravelling, falling apart so quickly it made her dizzy to even talk about it.

Once or twice, a young Orion, Lieutenant D’nevla, joined the communications officer: she was a friend of Spock’s, and she had been taking double shifts to cover his work in the labs, though he never requested she did. She had a bright, merry appearance that managed to ease even the doctor’s remarkably foul mood, and her visits were… enlightening. It was from watching her interact with the First Officer that McCoy realised that everyone on board (humans and aliens alike) always treated him a little _differently_. Be it on the account that he was Vulcan, an endangered species and now a relic of something forever lost, or simply because he had that way of going by unnoticed, quietly observing life as it progressed with the eyes of a scientist but rarely participating in it, that way of being unobtrusive yet constantly _there,_ ready to intervene if things went wrong… People acted differently when Spock was present, and Leonard wondered if _he_ knew, if he minded or simply accepted it as a fact, as the _status quo_ , because it _was_ the _status quo_. The exception being, of course, Jim, who was never less than thrilled to have him around and treated him as his equal, nothing more, nothing less. And, for some strange reason for which Bones was grateful nonetheless, D’nevla. But it might be due to her having practically spent half her life working with the Vulcan and learning from him, growing up with him.

It was, all in all, quite an educational week for the doctor.

The sixth night was the hardest: Jim’s broken ribs had nearly healed and his vitals had almost completely returned to normal parameters, thus his mind was beginning to show signs of restlessness, wanting to escape the blanket of darkness it was trapped within. When McCoy entered the private room he had long ago set out for his most troublesome patients, he found Spock half sitting, half reclining over the tiny bed, palms cupping Kirk’s cheeks, fingers splayed in the position of a meld. He was, however, perfectly cognisant of his surroundings, for as soon as he took one step inside, the Vulcan’s piercing eyes lifted to stare at him intently. “The Captain is having a nightmare,” he stated in an even whisper, “I do not believe it is wise to keep him in this state any longer.”

The CMO walked quickly across the small space, stopping to glance briefly at the wide screen occupying most of the wall to gauge Jim’s conditions. “I know. He’s starting to have a negative reaction to his medications, so that’s the last he’ll have of them.”

Spock nodded curtly, smoothing his hand briefly on the human’s forehead and temple, his head dropping low as he murmured a litany of Vulcan words in a not-so-surprisingly gentle tone.

“Are you reading his mind?” Leonard demanded, turning his back on him as he readied a string of Hypos to prepare for whatever his friend’s body decided to throw at him. “He won’t like that, you know.”

The Science Officer shook his head once in denial, then, realising the doctor could not see him, spoke out loud: “I am not. I do not require a meld to be aware of his emotional state: simple skin-to-skin contact suffices.” Jim’s head had begun thrashing about on the pillow, but Spock stilled him with a firm yet delicate grip, and he fell silent when the human started to babble nonsensical, muffled words under his breath. “I am attempting to quiet his distress.”

“Well, good luck with that,” McCoy muttered sarcastically, retrieving a bowl before moving to stand by the bed. “Hold him upright, I’m gonna have to give him a gastric lavage. It’s gonna be mostly dry heaves since I’ve been feeding him intravenously, but the first round’s liable to be ugly.” He slid an arm over Kirk’s shoulders to support him, drawing him into a sitting position. Then he sprayed two Hypos into his neck, one to rouse him somewhat and the other to make his stomach turn. “You can leave, it’s gonna get pretty disgusting.”

Spock shot him an incredulous look, shifting to sit more fully onto the bed, hands sliding around Jim’s wrists in a vaguely possessive move. “I prefer to stay, thank you, doctor,” he said condescendingly, “Please, allow me…” He drifted off as the CMO relinquished his friend to the Vulcan’s hold so he could wrap himself around the slowly awakening Captain. “Jim,” he called softly into his ear, sensing his rousing consciousness. “Jim, are you…?”

“No! No no no no no...” Kirk drawled, head lolling from side to side as he desperately tried to escape from the unyielding circle of Spock’s arms. His overly bright blue eyes came to focus suddenly, and he blinked, looking confused and very much in pain. “Bones, what…?” That was as far as he got before the first wave of nausea overwhelmed him and he bent over his own knees, coughing as he brought up whatever little his stomach still held into the bowl McCoy had readied for him. “There, now, Jim. Let it out. S’fine. You’ll be fine.”

The Vulcan caressed Jim’s forehead and back, holding him as his t’hy’la had done the night he had had his unpleasant first experience with chocolate. His skin was sweaty and overheated, like a furnace, and he was shaking violently, face red as he retched, spitting bile.

“Damn it, damn it…” he chocked, clutching at Spock’s thighs desperately. “I can’t… I can’t… vomit… make it… stop…”

“Do not worry, _k’diwa_ ,” his second in command crooned, voice almost a chant, “There will be food for you in the morning.”

That seemed to calm the human somewhat, although it did take more than half an hour before the gagging subsided and he collapsed, boneless and exhausted, against the Vulcan’s chest. McCoy shot him with three different Hypos, but he didn’t so much as flinch at the sting of the injection. “It’s over now, kid, you can sleep.”

Jim’s eyelids fluttered closed obediently, and Spock lowered him carefully on the bed, mindful of the IV still attached to his right arm, then resumed his usual position sitting in his chair, which he drew as close as possible; his hand returned to caressing Kirk’s messy hair as if nothing had happened. “ _Shom-tor, k’diwa. Taluhk nash-veh k’du, t’hy’la, ashal-veh…_ ”  

Leonard watched him silently, arms crossed as he listened to the ancient, elegant language he never took the time to learn and wondered at the Vulcan’s tender words and their hidden meaning. “You know, Spock,” he said, collecting his equipment before leaving the room, “I’m damn well glad Jim has you.”

Something akin to relief and bewilderment passed across the scientist’s transparent eyes, but it was gone in a blink as he once again directed the whole of his attention at the object of his very obvious affections. “Thank you, doctor,” he whispered only, leaning down to rest his chin upon Jim’s pillow.

* * *

 

Jim awoke to the sound of McCoy shuffling about near his bed; Spock had left for Alpha shift some fifty minutes before, and as soon as he noticed Kirk’s vitals had shifted back to a state of awareness, the doctor went to call the bridge: “He’s up and kicking,” he said simply.

“I will be there shortly,” came the Vulcan’s immediate reply before he cut communications, wasting no time in pleasantries when he could race all the way to Sickbay in less than 3.798 minutes, an art perfected over the years and countless missions gone wrong.

Leonard moved to offer a welcoming smile to his reckless Captain, sifting a hand through his hair in a brisk, affectionate gesture that betrayed both his concern and his relief. “Welcome back among the living, idiot.”

“Hello, Bones,” Jim croaked, clearing his throat uncomfortably as he found it dry and sour. His CMO handed him a glass of water which he gulped down in a flash, then helped him into a sitting position, his back reclining against the now upturned pillow. “How long…?”

“I knocked you out cold for a week, kid,” Bones told him flatly, “You did quite the number back there with Kodos.” His eyes darkened in fury and compassion alike as he thought of the late Executioner and his men who still survived, because the Federation was firmly against the death penalty, no matter how much one deserved it. McCoy knew and approved of the motives behind the choice, but he felt as if those murderers would never pay enough for their heinous crimes. “I almost lost you for a moment.”

The Captain raised a trembling hand and locked the doctor’s forearm in a friendly grip, a strong hold designed to say, without words, _I’m here, I’m safe, you can stop worrying now._ “Sorry, Bones.”

“It’s fine, now, Jim,” the doctor murmured soothingly, “Just try and be more careful next time.”

“Bones, it’s over,” Kirk whispered, hardly daring to believe his own words, “He’s dead.”

“Yes.”

Leonard turned when he heard Spock knock gently on the open door to make his presence known, and smiled at him, too, looking at the tray of food he was carrying. “The goblin’s brought you breakfast, Jim,” he stated, nodding to himself, “Good choice, by the way. It should go down without much fuss.”

Slowly, the Vulcan walked over to the bed, seating himself in the chair and staring at his Captain warily, as if afraid to be sent away; his shoulders were stiff and drawn infinitesimally inward, expression closed off and forcedly collected, and he had yet to utter a word. Jim, for his part, appeared to be fascinated by the nearly invisible patterns decorating the ceiling, and wasn’t acknowledging his presence at all.

Sighing heavily, McCoy clapped his hands to capture their attention. “I’m leaving you two dumbasses alone so you can _talk_.” He put particular stress on the word, and sent a pointed glare in Kirk’s direction to admonish him. “No funny business. And I _mean_ it. I’ll be back in half an hour to check on your condition. _Eat_. All of it.”

With that, he was gone. An uncomfortable silence stretched into the tiny room, lasting for what seemed like ages, before finally Spock found the courage to break it, mostly because Jim was terribly pale and in desperate need of nourishment. He picked up a bowl of light cereals and offered it to the human with a soft murmur of: “You are hungry, _k’diwa_ , here.”

That was the third time he had dared call Kirk _beloved_ , but the Vulcan was self-aware enough to know it was only because he was certain his t’hy’la had no idea what the ancient word meant. He waited with some trepidation for him to wrap his fingers around the small container and start eating the proffered food. “How are you faring?” he asked quietly, chilled by his companion’s aloof behaviour: he did not understand why his Captain would wish to distance himself so from him, why he deemed it necessary to hide the truth from him, to push him away.

“I’m fine, Spock,” Kirk said dismissively, “You don’t have to… stick around if you don’t want to.” It took him less than five minutes to finish the cereals, and here the Vulcan was presented with a conundrum: he intended to give Jim one of the sweet bread rolls he had brought, but tradition prevented him from touching the food directly with his fingers; he solved his problem by passing him the plate so he could pick his own. “I wish to stay, if it is of no inconvenience to you,” he replied, and relaxed minutely when the human nodded and smiled faintly at him.

Satisfied he was eating, Spock decided he could partake in the meal, and gathered his slice of _prusah kisan_ (a fruit pie typical of Shi’Kahr) as he kept watching his t’hy’la. “Jim, talk to me,” he demanded after a while, leaning forward just so, trying to meet his eyes that eluded him, so beautiful yet so unattainable.

It took a few more minutes before Jim finally let him see his expression, and for a moment the Vulcan wished he hadn’t turned at all, because to have those sky-blue eyes, full of terrible pain and achingly intense, piercing his very soul was excruciating. He wanted nothing more than to press himself against that wonderful, fragile, brave human, smell his scent and taste his emotions and mould his own mind around his, till they were one and he could quell the waves of hurt rolling off him.

“What would you have me say, Spock?”

He looked so weary. Old.

Spock’s fingers itched for some kind of contact. He twined them in his lap and contained the sigh threatening to escape, then voiced the first question that came to his lips: “Why did you leave me in the dark?” He set his breakfast aside, more interested in his t’hy’la’s answer than in gaining nourishment; distantly, the logical side of his brain reminded him it was quite an emotional behaviour to refuse food because of one’s worry, but he ignored it. _Please, t’hy’la, do let me in._

“I never wanted you to know about Tarsus.” Kirk shifted against his pillow, and the Vulcan made an aborted motion to help him before he stilled in his chair and waited for him to find a more comfortable position. The human moved so he was facing him fully, and the weight of his gaze settled upon Spock’s shoulders, causing him to tense in response. “I had surmised as much. I wish to understand why.”

Jim raised a hand to his forehead, scratching at his golden hair, and his eyes fell to the corner of the bed as if drawn there by a greater force. “Because I wasn’t ready to tell you yet.” He paused, obviously choosing his next words carefully, tone charged with an emotion the Vulcan couldn’t name. “Now circumstances made it impossible to keep it from you, so, well…” He laughed humourlessly, and Spock shivered and dragged his chair closer to him, instinctually reaching for him: his hand came to rest on the mattress. “You figured it out by yourself, didn’t you? You’re so damn _smart_.”

“You went with Kodos willingly,” the scientist stated, mulling over Kirk’s admission. “You let him hurt you.”

“Yes. He had you and the others. He would have killed you then and there if I hadn’t followed him.”

“You were ready to die with him.” The Vulcan’s voice had taken on a distinctly displeased quality. _T’hy’la, do you not know how precious you are?_ “You would have given up your life only to see him destroyed.”

Jim’s eyes flashed in sudden rage: “Are you judging me, Spock?” he challenged, “Because that’s not at all your place. You have no idea what life was like during the famine, you have no _fucking_ idea -what I did to survive, what I _lost_ …”

Spock wrapped a hand around his fingers, stilling him and cutting through his rage with the simple honesty of his clear gaze: “I would never presume to judge you, Jim,” he calmly declared, “But I would have you remember that it is per your own doing that I am left to wonder at your experience. Also, I am no stranger to _loss_.”

_How can you be so cruel as to think I can afford to lose you as well?_

Kirk slumped against the pillow, seemingly drained of all his fury, and his eyes returned to harbouring that soft, heartbreakingly compassionate look that made the Vulcan yearn for more physical proximity; he did not relinquish his hold of the human’s hand, listening to what was left unsaid, to the confusing turmoil of _pain-disbelief-resignation-frustration-affection-sadness_ cursing through his skin. “That’s exactly why I didn’t want you to become involved. I didn’t want you to see… what I was like… before. I shouldn’t have let you come planet-side.”

Spock’s eyes narrowed. “You would have died had I not intervened,” he growled, the sharp sting of rejection tainting his mind and filling his mouth with a sour taste. “I would have been honoured to be your ally during this incident, yet you chose to treat me as a stranger,” he accused, breaking their contact to cross his arms stiffly, “You demand my trust yet do not trust me in return. You have been unfair to me, and I am forced to reach the conclusion that you do not, in fact, desire my help and support.”

Jim grimaced, set his jaw, graced him with a hard expression designed to hide his pain. The Vulcan could hear his heart beating faster. “I _warned_ you,” the Captain hissed, “I warned you it would come to this.”

“Come to what?” the scientist pressed, alarmed, anxiously examining his face for clues as to his meaning. _T’hy’la, no, do not, do not give up so soon…_ “Please clarify.”

Kirk took a steadying breath, forced a smile. “Spock, I understand if you wanna end things now. It’s fine. We can still be friends.” He swallowed. “I mean, if you want. I know I’ve been a total shit to you, but I told you before, it wasn’t gonna be pleasant.” A huff escaped his soft lips and he turned away sharply as the Vulcan stared, flabbergasted, at him, utterly unable to respond to the string of absurdities thrown his way. “Hell, nothing about me is pleasant. My past isn’t pleasant. My past is _fucking Tarsus_ , stealing and killing. I _murdered_ people to survive back then. _Murdered_ , do you understand? I had _my caretakers_ sell me to Kodos’s guards to save themselves, so sorry if I have a hard time trusting people.” He shook his head as if to clear it, then added: “You shouldn’t meddle with this kind of ugly shit. You’ve had enough to last…”

He fell quiet abruptly, eyes widening as he unexpectedly found Spock all up and into his personal space, face just inches shy of his own, fingers encircling his wrists firmly to keep him still; he had knocked over his chair and was sitting on the bed, staring incredulously down at the human with a glare that could have set Delta Vega on fire, so passionate and un-Vulcan-like it was. “ _Foolish_ Jim,” he snarled, leaning down to press his forehead against his Captain’s and purposefully ignoring his startled attempts at putting some space between them. “As if I would ever wish to leave you. As if I would ever desire anything other than you. As if I would ever think any less of you because you survived a _genocide_ of all things.”

“Spock…” Kirk tried, but his companion was having none of it.

“Be _silent_ , k’diwa,” he ordered, landing a quick kiss on his temple before he pulled away enough to whisper: “You are an amazing person, Jim, but you are also a _fool_ , and I have grown quite tired of this attitude of yours.”

“Attitude…?” Jim repeated, feeling the Vulcan’s fingers slide upwards to caress his palms, and twined their hands, letting out a long, drawn-out breath when their lips brushed.

“Indeed. I would be most grateful if you would cease censoring yourself for my sake. If you do not trust me with your past, how can you expect me to understand and support you in your present and future? Foolish Jim.”

“Okay, okay, I’ve got it. I’m a fool.” He reached up to kiss him on the nose, truly smiling for the first time since the start of the mission. “Can you forgive me?”

“Of course, k’diwa.” Spock was deeply relieved now that he understood that Jim’s absurd behaviour stemmed from misplaced guilt and insecurity, and not from a sense of dissatisfaction with their relationship. “Please bear in mind that I am more than willing to help you with any problem you may have, as you have already done for me many times. In fact, nothing would please me more.”

“Romantic much? Isn’t that a bit… illogical?” Kirk laughed a little, encircling the Vulcan’s neck with both arms.

“It is not,” the scientist simply replied, basking in the affection seeping into his skin, “You are precious to me.”

“Thank you,” the human murmured, and he embraced him fully, warm and strong and golden. “Thank you.”

Spock kissed him on the mouth, a slow, thorough kiss, heedless of the doctor who had returned and was now making exaggerated gagging noises behind them; Jim tasted like the food he had brought, which satisfied the Vulcan on a very instinctual level, and his emotional state was rich and positive, washing pleasantly over his shields. _T’nash-veh t’hy’la._

“I thought I _said_ no funny business!” Leonard raged loudly.

Completely unfazed, the First Officer left the bed and returned to his chair and his unfinished breakfast, looking for all the world as if he had just won the Nobel Prize. Jim chuckled breathlessly, leaning towards him to examine what remained of the slice of cake. “Can I have some of that?” he requested. Spock fed him a bite with his own fork.

“Ugh, you two are _gross_ ,” the CMO complained in mock-irritation; he was fighting a smile, though, and Kirk leered at his companion just to aggravate McCoy further. “Actually, I’m drop dead gorgeous and Spock’s hot as Vulcan.”

Both the doctor and the scientist raised an eyebrow at the pun.

“Just shut the hell up and let me check your vitals, kid.”

* * *

 

Kneeling on the floor of his quarters, Spock stared at his lyre with a blank expression, brushing his fingertips over the pale strings as he silently contemplated the subtle signs of wear on the smooth wooden surface. He found himself trapped in a strange sense of conflict: he realised now and quite abruptly that he had greatly missed playing, missed the tranquillity and peace the music lent him and the web of comforting feelings it inspired, at times more steadying and anchoring than meditation itself. He was admittedly confused by the sudden blossoming of a wish to re-discover the instrument, because in no way had his guilt diminished, nor had the idea of immerging himself once more in memories of his mother’s love become any less hurtful. But the binds he had carefully drawn to contain that part of his mind were loosening considerably, and pain and joy alike filtered, unbidden, influencing his judgement, weakening him.

It was not to be.

The warm touch of a human hand pressed against his shoulder derailed his train of thought, and then Jim was crouching in front of him, a smile on his face: “Will you play for me?” he asked simply, eyes twinkling as he pulled the Vulcan up to his feet.

“I have not played since…” Spock began, shooting the _ka’athyra_ a doubtful look even as he allowed his t’hy’la to guide him into a sitting position on the small bed. Kirk enveloped him in an embrace from behind, arms and legs wrapped tightly around him. “I know,” he murmured, from his position with his chin dipped into his shoulder. “That’s why I’m asking, Spock.”

The half-blood relaxed blissfully into his presence, moulding his back to his chest, and turned his head just so to let him see his eyebrow raised in question. “Trust me,” Jim said, “You’ve gotta get over it sooner rather than later.” A light chuckle escaped him, and the Vulcan felt it reverberate across his spine. “Believe me, I speak from experience. It’ll be better afterwards.”

“Will it, now?” the scientist quipped, teasing a string experimentally and shivering in response to the deep note the motion elicited. He let his hand fall and the human took it in his own, tickling his fingers a little. “Can I lower the temperature, baby?” he demanded.

Spock had, in fact, noticed his t’hy’la was on his way to overheating, and gave the order to the computer good-naturedly, knowing the ambient was well above what humans generally considered ‘hot’. “Thanks,” Jim whispered gratefully into his hair, kissing up and down his neck in a deeply soothing rhythm. “So will you play?”

“Hmm…” Spock closed his eyes for a moment, enjoying the sweet touches his beloved was bestowing upon his person and the fondness he picked up from their every point of contact. “Do you really wish me to?” he inquired somewhat lazily, tilting his head to the side so he could capture Kirk’s lips with his own, perhaps hoping to distract him.

“Yeah, I wanna hear you. Please.” Jim cajoled, voice tender, running his palm over the flat, polished surface of the lyre with an air of reverence that made the scientist melt further into the embrace. “There’s a lot I still don’t know about your culture, and I’m curious. One can only learn so much from a computer’s databanks…” His breath ghosted over Spock’s pointed ear for a moment, utterly distracting, but then he withdrew. “Play me some ancient songs.”

“Very well,” the Vulcan acquiesced, perfectly aware there was little to nothing he would deny his _k’diwa_. “I shall play _Tsat t’arev_ , _Secret of the desert wind_ , for you; it is a melody that was most appreciated in pre-Surakian times, and it was usually sung before the sun set, to celebrate the end of a day of toil and bring about a restful night.” He had always been fascinated by those times, especially as a child learning control and discipline. “I believe you will find it quite emotional. Would that be acceptable?”

Jim laughed again, and moved to wrap his arms around his waist, stilling there so he would not disturb him. “More than acceptable, baby. Let’s hear.”

Spock huffed quietly; then, with an alarming dose of trepidation (he would have to meditate intensively over his increasingly emotional responses to certain situations), he took a deep breath and started to hum the words of the lullaby, softly, delicately, so low it was barely audible: such was the whisper of the wind when it first rose above the dunes, lifting the reddish sands into a timeless dance.

The human listened, enraptured, to the alien (now more than ever) voice grow into a slow crescendo, words spilling faster and louder, the echo of the tiring restlessness of the day -a day full of battles and the struggle of survival- promising more storms to come. The tune was powerful and the Vulcan sang it so well it was as if he could see the roasting fire around which nomad clans gathered and smell the desert in its rich scents and hear the distant howls of le-matyas and sehlats fighting to the death and feel the darkness of a moonless night caress his skin, enveloping him in a black blanket that for some reason spoke only of security.

And finally, finally, Spock’s fingers fell upon the strings, and he began to play; the music was otherworldly. Jim held his breath, observing his lover’s eyelids flutter closed in concentration, his lips part slightly, a melancholic expression paint itself over his sharp features. He did not dare shift, and took care to keep his emotions firmly in check so as to convey nothing but a sense of awe, appreciation and warmth through the touch of his lips against his skin. “Beautiful,” he murmured in wonderment, and felt the Vulcan lean subtly into him in response, head falling upon his shoulder as he continued singing, his voice mixing seamlessly with the magnificent sounds he tore from the lyre.

An edge of grief-stricken sadness flowed into the symphony when it started to reach its conclusion; Spock’s hands, which had been dancing so fast across the instruments they sometimes blurred, nearly stopped over what Kirk assumed were the ending notes, so full of grief they brought a lump to his throat, but suddenly the melody flared again, surprisingly alive and bursting with courageous hope: those dead during the day’s battles had been mourned, and now came the time to celebrate life and new beginnings and the quiet that was the night and the brush of the wind against sand that looked silver -drained of its fiery colour by the darkness- under bright stars…

And that was the end.

With a liberating sigh, the Vulcan set the lyre at the foot of the bed, and he turned towards Jim, searching for his fingers and silently requesting his opinion. The human smiled widely at him, eyes shining in happiness, then he was kissing him fervently, and Spock found himself lying on his back with a very enthusiastic t’hy’la trying to take off his uniform hovering over him.

“You’re amazing,” he was whispering, “So fucking amazing.”

The scientist caught him by the hips to still him. “Jim,” he called warningly, pushing him away when he noticed his Captain had no intention of relinquishing his claim on his shirt. “Jim, you are due on the bridge in 27.639 minutes. _Jim_.”

“That’s like, half an hour,” Kirk drawled, “Plenty of time.”

“Not quite,” Taking advantage of his superior strength, Spock wriggled away from his grip and off the bed, straightening out his uniform with a stiff motion. “I need to visit the scientific laboratories, engineering and the greenhouses.”

Jim flashed him a grin as he composed himself. “Eh, that’s too bad. I’ll see you on Alpha shift then?”

“Indeed.” The Vulcan bent down for a fleeting goodbye kiss. “I shall join you there in precisely 26 minutes.” He made to leave.

Kirk’s eyes trailed after him, and just before he could walk into the range of the sensors to open the doors, he called: “Hey, Spock?”

The First Officer cocked his head to the side curiously, gracing him with a soft, affectionate look: “Yes, Jim?”

“…Thanks.”

Spock blinked. “What for, my Jim?”

“Nothing, just… Thank you.”

“Of course, Jim.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And… that’s it! The arc is closed on a sweet lovely note! I also finished on record time, so, yeah, I’m quite satisfied with the way things turned out, and ready to turn on Spock’s problem with melding ^_^ Cute Vulcan insecurity is cute, but he needs to gain a little more confidence, and who doesn’t like a good old meld?  
> Also, I might have a thing for Spock falling asleep around the ship. I’m afraid that’s not the last you’ll read of it, but I’ll keep myself in check!  
> I wanna thank all of you who have been following me so far, I loved your reviews and your general presence and you’re great and awesome and I hope you’re having a good time! Shaya tonat!  
> On the death penalty; I know in TOS “The ultimate computer” it actually says that the Federation validates it, but it was, after all, the twentieth century when the show aired, and so I decided to take this license, because I think it fits more with the general spirit of the Federation to have abolished killing as a means of justice. (For more information on the matter, please read ‘Dei delitti e delle pene’, by Cesare Beccaria).  
> Okay, I was kidding. Please forgive my crazy love for anything remotely related to Literature. I am a fool.   
> And anyway, in the last episode of the third series, when Janice Lester wants to execute Spock and the others, Sulu and Chekov say it’s not allowed unless in certain very specific circumstances, so… that’s that.  
> Here is the end of the first part of the series! I will be back soon, please wait for me!
> 
> What a reeeeally long note! I’ll call it quits now before I can blubber further. LLAP and see you next chapter!

**Author's Note:**

> Well... thank you all for reading up to the end! I'll be back soon with the next chapter!
> 
> LLAP


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